memories. unintentional tape manipulations.

"i expected mrs. berger's kitchen to be empty so late in the morning, but they were all there: mr. chaikowitz; his third wife; the old writer, Lemkin, who used to be an anarchist; and sylvia, who had taken me to a movie on mermaid avenue a few days before."

i started to read a story outside of myself today. there are certain conventions in storytelling. i've spent too much time thinking on what makes good writing out of various reads. it's all storytelling. playing on memories. when introducing a new person, be precise: subject zero, important because x and y, or y and z. the story teller weighs the options.

all remembered history is told by the charismatic. memorable words shat on a page become dead relics of previous experience lived. there is a probability, at some given time, all the particles making a person will align with other particles in space in such a way, so that the person should fall through the earth. an atomically thin needle slipping through.

so what of our memories? i look back and see myself objectively. i am not a sensory self patting a dog on the head in my back yard. i am another person, looking back. seeing myself as a child patting the head of a dog and kissing it on the head. i remember being scared she might bite back. that bitch was feral.

it was the fall. i was at the side of our house making paces, so as to measure the distance from the neighbors house to ours. i think i was told there was a legal limit as to how close neighbors could be. together, we shared a well for water and i think that was the border to our respective properties. i paced and found the distances to our houses to be equal. this collie trots along and greets me. i don't know what to do, or how to react. i remember hearing that dogs can smell fear. i was careful to pet her and i think i abandoned my project, running indoors.

i do not remember what i did for the remainder of the day, or life.