Breadcrumb #649
KATELAN FOISY
All the days, they faded away. They faded the way a sunset fades, first vibrant, streaking the sky then slowly becoming muted as the night creeps in. The smell of dead roses permeates the room. I haven’t washed out the vase, only sat it in front of a painting applying layers. I think of you as I laminate these layers. You're layered in a way I dream about often. The seasons are changing, Autumn leaves are falling to the ground waiting for the bones of winter. Hay tantas capas en el invierno.
Winter days pass too fast. I feel them slip by as I dip brushes into paint. It all feels like a jumbled motion to move ahead. I want to be in Mexico. We're in the 'tween weather now; snow and rain, the space that falls between seasons. I'm in the space betwixt two lives and cities. I miss the days I would spend all night reading, listening to the droplets and anointing myself with oils. Those were the evenings when the moths came. Small moths entered first. They kissed the doorways and camouflaged with curtains. Then they became bigger. The large wings flapped against flickering bulbs. They always carried messages. Rikker dovo adrée tute’s see — keep that a secret.
“I miss the days I would spend all night reading, listening to the droplets and anointing myself with oils.”
Moths, moths, moths.
When I was a child I dreamed I’d live in Paris, speak French, and dress in all white, smoking slim cigarettes from my moth colored chaise lounge. Sometimes I'd dream of being a starlet in Mexico and Italy. My house would be filled with rich fabrics and hand painted partitions. I never wanted anything new, I always wanted imprinted memories. This itself imprinted the path to cameras and film.
I love the flicker of Super 8 film, the way it flips and sputters adding layers of time to moments captured. I love knowing those moments will never happen quite the same ever again, even if reenacted, or part of a routine. I like knowing in a moment’s time that you can capture past present and future all at once. I like to think of memory as the flickering of film or the flapping of a moth’s wings against night air. My memories are in soft focus. Your face blending into the backgrounds like pastels. I no longer remember the crisp details of time or the seasons as they change. You've become like a ghost to me: unseen but heard, making me soft and surreal. We’re invisible creatures only known by melody, words, and images. Always the same faces, always the same shapes morphing continuously. Memory has a distinct taste. It's kind of like red but softer. You make me a romantic.