memoir

Memories, not preserved, but stirred—by scent, silence, road signs, passing strangers.

Stories, not about me, but through me.

The writing self, not fixed, but shifting—porous, provisional, shaped by encounter into cryptic, chameleonic form.

Memoir, here, is a listening practice. A way of tuning the inner ear toward what wishes to speak, even if it contradicts what the “I” thinks it knows.

These pieces trace the shimmering contours of moments as they returned to me—not always as I had once told them to myself, but as they insisted on being told now. They arise from a lifetime of reflection, error and errancy, interruption and surprise.

---