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My Mother’s Tapes

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Roughly a dozen years ago I went on a hike with my friend Catherine. She noticed every boulder we passed and greeted them with respect, as if they were elders. Her admiration rubbed off on me, big time.
This summer I am sorting through spaces my father inhabited before his spring death. Spring + Death; my mind refutes the pairing. His absence is becoming more familiar but the process is slow. It is staggering to see his use of materials designed to bind: strings, paper clips, rubber bands. I remember them as a part of him, the way someone would carry a pair of glasses. Attempts to secure or hold together the fragments of his life, our lives. Trying to attach. Connect. I won’t pretend to understand my father in this way but I do see a little bit of his immigration story in these materials. Romania -> France -> Canada -> USA.
Happy Mother’s Day to all the women who nurture in more ways than we fully understanding or, unfortunately, we take for granted. Women who show up. Coordinate. Hold. Remember. Listen. Make eye contact. Dance.
Playing with lines.
Desert lines. Eastern Sierras.
Is this what you are looking for? Beautiful studio available in Dogpatch with view of the Bay. Let me know if you are interested!
Q: What’s on that tape?
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