Our friends, how seldom visited, how little known—it is true; and yet, when I meet an unknown person, and try to break off, here at this table, what I call ‘my life,’ it is not one life that I look back upon; I am not one person; I am many people; I do not altogether know who I am—or how to distinguish my life from theirs.
Virginia Woolf The Waves
P h i l o s o p h y
Words of your art are the world,
perceptions of selves weave portraits
from sea. One life is not confined to
one body. Promised in the body
something more certain than itself.
F i r s t M e m o r y
The one that paints red and purple flowers
on your mother’s dress?
The one where the base of your bowl of life
stands upon this one memory?
Lying swaddled in the nursery in St. Ives.
Her white dressing gown.
Reflection of turquoise in the mirror crinkled like the wool blanket she wrapped.
Obsessed with the lighthouse, the sea.
You said you were lying and hearing this splash
of the waves breaking, and you saw the light: barreling waves.
Moments of being embedded in moments of non-being.
Who was in your kaleidoscope of selves?
Did you reinvent your self?