Tuesday, January 7, 2014

some dance to remember

Memory is the raw material of my work. I found my voice in writing of my butcher father slaughtering poultry at his market, my grandparents harassing each other over gin rummy in their living room, a boyhood walk on the beach in the eye of a hurricane. I could know who I was because I knew who and where I’d been. I could find a story, give form to my experience. But now, without reliable memory, I’m a composer with notes but no melody, a sculptor with nothing but crumbled medium. A quarter century ago, in the aftermath of a viral attack that targeted my brain, I had to relearn how to make sense on the page.

- Floyd Skloot