Prologue:
In 1984 I was born to Leslie Lienau and Richard Gibbs.
We moved all over. We moved away from Richard Gibbs.
My home is in my thoughts, and unless I’m really hungry or I need a spliff, memory is my primary concern.
If I’m not paying attention to you when you talk to me, I’m probably remembering the time I stepped on that bee in the backyard on N. Hammond St- I was seven.
Or maybe how the first time I met you, there was nasty zit on your nose and I wanted to pop it for you.
My memories shouldn’t be any of your business,
but I’ll let you take a look if you don’t tell me what you think about it.
Wherever I’m going next is wherever you aren’t.
Point:
I’ll have you know that my professional and esteemed opinion is that the revolving door between memory and reality rotates awfully fast. I’ll also have you know that my goal is to stop it in its tracks, if only for a moment.
You can tell me what you think about that but I won’t listen, ‘cause I already think it’s working and you ain’t gonna change my mind.
Memory is the only thing that matters to me because it’s the only reason I do anything.
My work is about memory; my memory is about my work. I don’t care if you like it, I don’t care if you understand it; it’s not for you.
