c-41

a yellow envelope among the pile of bills, junk and subscription magazines: the contents of three films, dug out from places of self-concealment and sent blindly to the developers’ before leaving. some frames blurred beyond recovery, others simply bleached out, the product of twelve years’ avoidance. never throw a thing away, he said.

odd, tied-up memories, then. squirrels in a small wood that’s no longer there, in an area I no longer visit. swift recognition of those I miss most, but most of all the misrecognition–no, the complete dis-recognition, as in dissociation, disavowal–of the image of whatever once occupied my body’s space.