Dali pointed out the key thing about the persistence of memory–it bends the angles of incidence. Softly.
We are the children of Kronos, time our father and devourer. And once born, we take this clay and attempt to engender art, so that signs may remain of where we had wandered, and how. Rock carvings, pottery shards. And we say that they have achieved momentary victory over time. Rushing headlong down the chute, we fling out our ID’s, hoping to be followed by some other mind. Hope: projecting the maps of memory forward into the future, a pensive history we cannot know. Therefore, the only way is to pass on our selves…books, art, children, empires, houses, gifts. To be remembered–that which we crave and that which draws away our human peace.
We tell stories. And embroider them. The plot of desire wends its way among the crags of memory, a mountain road between village houses, hurrying into the sunshine and tourists with the sea in the distance. When light moves into the scenery we dreamed of. Our times are born, histories as we want them to be.