Memory is a tricky, sticky, mass of mental mush… shape it to plug the holes in the soul. I know that we, “make ourselves up as we go along.” Believe you me… we are all a fantasy. We paint our faces and if we don’t we look rusted and not to be trusted; old and out of it… so…we knit the fabric, the mantel of self importance from old lies passed down from parent to child… until a brave ONE comes and destroys the aberrant pattern.
