ALL OF US HAVE A PRE-EXISTING CONDITION called consciousness. Part of our subjective life, of course, is our memories, a subject which for me appears to be a kind of fetish. Maybe it is something that just is a part of old age, as our memories quite naturally proliferate like so many subterranean potatoes as we get on in years. Charles Baudelaire told us in his ‘Les Fleurs du Mal’ of this quite common phenomenon: “I have more memories than if I were a thousand years old.” You may be the producer of these memories, but you also need to fill the role of director. There is no script; there are no guideposts; no programming cues pop up along the way. It can be an ever-revolving, clumsily pieced together film of your past. You have to concentrate to act as director, otherwise you are at the mercy of a rather inattentive, unsalaried doofus flipping through pages that he has gathered loosely together after dropping them behind your back. If you desire chronology, you’re out of luck. It’s piecemeal and helter-skelter. Good luck keeping track. You open at the Bijou next Friday.
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