A topography of loss.

The many facets of loss.

We learn to guard against its most conspicuous forms.

A stray polaroid; a meaningful song.

But then there are moments that sneak up on you; lateral connections you would never expect, tiny slivers of memory that snag at your mind.

I was reading a book, and off-handedly the narrator began listing ballet terms - attitude, ciseaux, balancé - words that have no technical meaning for me, but which caused my mind to wander carelessly away from the narrative at hand.

[She never liked the portrait hanging in her living room -- of her as a young ballerina, lunging into some stylized pose (surely with some equally impressive french term to describe it). I always loved the picture. It hinted at some richly textured past that I would never know, but which left some indelible stamp. That despite how ever long I knew her, there were always going to be hidden contours of her personality that would surprise and delight me.]

I tried adopting one of those habits of highly successful people -- writing down my consuming thoughts, exorcizing the demons on the printed page and freeing my my mind from the clutter (perhaps that is how highly successful people cope, they write "reminisce painfully about xxxx" on a notecard and file it away in the "to dwell" cabinet).

I can't say it has been an all too successful strategy. I now have reams of memories (not literally, most are stored somewhere on my hard-drive, but reams seemed more satisfying than kilobytes; although the technological homonym is apt) but little to show for it in added emotional clarity.

Loss is a strange geometry.