I remember the revelatory feeling of remembering events that had, and have now again, slipped completely from memory. It’s difficult to distinguish either level of this recollection from dream, so I don’t, I follow something else, back to a museum of photography, where I linger in a room to enjoy the resonance of the work, the dimmed lights, the electronic music, and the low voices of a young, French couple.
Here, to illustrate, I would sample the voice of your aging mother, set to a contemporary beat, despite extreme difficulty in deciding on the meaning of contemporary (no earlier than 1850? that we are still alive?), and in spite of or inspired by my inability to understand a word of hers, I hope that her past, her dreams, her knowledge, her illusions would resonate with the times and comfort us.
This is for us; sadly, I cannot do anything for her; I do not & will not know either of you. It’s ok, a voice reports to me. It’s important to maintain a proper distance, and this is just the first instance of.