writing
Fresh black top and a yellow line that was never there before. New faces in the windows as I drive down the road. “For Sale” signs on the farm land perimeter, promising cul de sacs and cookie cutter houses. The same mailbox still standing, missing shingles and the red flag, the private drive sign faded and weather worn. Roque stones litter the road where the driveway intersects, an indication of leaving and returning. The bank is bare, an unfamiliar sight, as I have only ever seen it enveloped by weeds and vines and prickers. The yard slightly overgrown, pavers disappearing beneath moss and clover. The pen now empty, where chickens used to peck and cluck and cock-a-doodle-do, grass reclaiming the soil, richer and fuller, fed from what was left by the birds. But the house still holds that familiar smell, a soft yellow light welcomes, the warmth of home wraps itself around me.
Upon returning home after being away for a while, I started noticing moments that differed from my memory. Nuances only I would probably be able to identify; having lived there the better part of my life. I imagine this is what “growing up” feels like: removing myself from that life in order to create a parallel life, occasionally revisiting the original, where it all started. Learning and growing from retracing that previous life that continues on – even though, I’m not there. The passage of time regardless of physical presence. What happens to that original life when those who continue to live it are no longer in existence? A bittersweet memory, I would imagine.
I am interested in exploring foreign objects found within a familiar setting. Instances that don’t quite line up like they had before. Investigating how and where we think things should be versus how and where they actually are. An absence of dust in a particular shape alludes to what once was there, but is no longer. A wax drip on a shelf, a remnant from a candlelit vigil. Pixels dismantled, pieced back together, creating iterations of images, a reminder of what came before, a foreshadow of what might come next. Neurons firing, misfiring, creating missed connections, crossed and tangled connections. Within a second or over the span of years, that anomaly can appear, changing everything completely just outside our control.
Upon returning home after being away for a while, I started noticing moments that differed from my memory. Nuances only I would probably be able to identify; having lived there the better part of my life. I imagine this is what “growing up” feels like: removing myself from that life in order to create a parallel life, occasionally revisiting the original, where it all started. Learning and growing from retracing that previous life that continues on – even though, I’m not there. The passage of time regardless of physical presence. What happens to that original life when those who continue to live it are no longer in existence? A bittersweet memory, I would imagine.
I am interested in exploring foreign objects found within a familiar setting. Instances that don’t quite line up like they had before. Investigating how and where we think things should be versus how and where they actually are. An absence of dust in a particular shape alludes to what once was there, but is no longer. A wax drip on a shelf, a remnant from a candlelit vigil. Pixels dismantled, pieced back together, creating iterations of images, a reminder of what came before, a foreshadow of what might come next. Neurons firing, misfiring, creating missed connections, crossed and tangled connections. Within a second or over the span of years, that anomaly can appear, changing everything completely just outside our control.
