memories of a gorilla suit.

I can't remember what I ate as a child. I know I ate things, I know we had meals. There are pieces, mostly memories of melting cheese on chips and watching I Love Lucy. There's the sugar bomb cereal that none of the neighbor kids were allowed. They always wanted to sleep over for the breakfast.

I don't understand why I can't remember the meals, years and years of my life. What was I eating? In my adult life, I structure my entire day around what I'm going to eat and when. I love food and I love to make it. I will gladly devote my entire evening to buying groceries and making a meal. I read food blogs like it's my job.

Memory is a funny thing. The pieces that carry through, the things you remember, and the things that are lost. Years of life, significant acts, eating, all lost. In this moment now, you can't imagine a time when you'll forget. Can't imagine not remembering the feel of that hand or the way the Boston air smelled after a cold December rain. But you might forget.

Funny, too, that we think we are open when we aren't, think we see things when we don't. There are some people I see every day, but still more that I pass by and don't see. I am still lost in my thought, fumbling with my umbrella, listening to the words of a song. There's the man in the gorilla suit that no one noticed.

What is truth when reflection and perception are so personal? What are our memories but one slide, one window to the larger world? What can we know?

At the very least, I want to know the world that I saw through my own eyes. I want to record the details, the smells, the beating in my chest, thumping like a drum. I'll pierce the fog with every awareness. And maybe project something beautiful out into the blackness.

Maybe something like this

Kim Keever's miniature topographies shot in a fish tank.

Or maybe something like this

Thomas Jackson's "Swarm" photographs (Thanks to Colossal for posting them!)

Or maybe just some words.