My earliest memory is staring underneath my mother’s bed, scared and crying. There in the dark was a purse with a metal frame, pillowed interior and dawned a bizarre looking dog face. I remember being on my stomach, my eyes locked on that dog face, wanting my mother to pick me up already.
I’ll never forget when I brought it up to her. Where were we? What the fuck was that purse and where were you?
She turned around, her face distorted in disbelief, almost as if someone has slapped her. She told me that she was sure I wasn’t even a year old.
Most of my life feels like that. Like a series of photographs, lying around in a shoe-box, never sorted. I could read a book over and over and still feel as if I’m reading it for the first time. Same goes for movies, even my favorites or the most captivating. Sometimes I imagine that’s my brain, too stuffed with the too good, the too rough and the too terrible, all fighting for first place. I was told to start at the beginning, and I suppose this is the most beginning I’ve got.