I canít say that I knew what I was going to do ahead of time.  Sometimes we keep secrets from ourselves and knowledge, like a moss or lichen, can creep up and insinuate itself among our belongings so slowly that we have to try and reconstruct its first appearance. 

Iíve heard that we only use a tiny percentage of our brain at any given moment.  

 

Somebody told me this.

Or maybe I read it.  

It makes me wonder what the unused portion of my mind is doing.  

 

Plotting?  

Comparing the precise sizes of my wife's breasts?

Uncovering or discovering information that it may or may not pass along?  

Recursively moving through the definitions of Trefoils, Rood Screen, Sally Port, Ogee, Brise-Soleil, Caryatid, Voussoir?  

I am of two minds or a hundred or enough that I'll get bored counting.  I am double, both the person that says hello and the things that watch, evaluate, and decide.  This makes crowds impossible.  I spend most of my time actively forgetting. 

 

Forgetting what I know.  

 

Forgetting who we are.  

 

 

Desperate reconstructions on hidden foundations.

Proceed