The velocity with which time flies is infinite, as is most apparent to those who look back.
I remember my mom telling me that when John Belushi died, my dad cried. I remember thinking that was strange as a child, but today, I kind of get it.
We are able to find everything in our memory, which is like a dispensary or chemical laboratory in which chance steers our hand sometimes to a soothing drug and sometimes to a dangerous poison.
All of these stories bounced around in my mind for a long time.
In the broad sense, as a processing of everything one hears or witnesses, all fiction is autobiographical - imagination ground through the mill of memory. It's impossible to separate the two ingredients.
It is pleasant to recall past troubles.
Photographs put time into such a perspective. They humble us and our selfish memories.
I'm always trying to figure out ways to keep hold of memories. My one-sentence journal, for instance.
