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I have this constant fear of forgetting. Sometimes to allay this fear, I write. I write down dialogues that I have had word for word, or I detail the dullest, most unimaginative, factual accounts of events I can manage. If I am desperate, I retell the events as a narrative. I explain the context thoroughly, describe the characters in my story honestly and try to be as faithful to the thoughts and sensations I had in the moment as I can. But I choose an adjective that is too straightforward; I pause too many times in a sentence. I am asked a wrong question, and it breaks the momentum of the emotions and words. Every form of retelling or record changes the tint of the memory. Years later, no matter how resolutely I’ve tried to record things just as they are, all I can remember is the distinct mood of a moment. Mood has no body; it’s like the whiff of a perfume. It floats between the carpet weave, the icy surface of linoleum tiles on a winter morning, and the brittle words of the previous night’s phone call.


So I melt, cast, draw, cut, sew, look at intimate spaces, think about the weightiness of our bodies, and try to capture that.