tests, checking awareness and motor skills, running diagnostics over the chemical corpus. I’m still walking and talking. This last week I’ve been working on an apartment that was home once, fixing and servicing, expecting to remember how everything slots together. But poised by the mute intercom my mind drifts with news snippets and reimagined images, of Fellini and his Toby Dammit charging around the night streets in a bronze Ferrari. I have to down tools a moment, wondering where that came from, wondering does it means anything? So easily distracted, dreaming of pathways and runners in my waking hours, as in our sleep we sift through the debris of a day’s observations. And I make the connection with a headline glimpsed, the actor who has died. Lifelong I’ve mused on mavericks and runaways, can’t change that. Ghosts of memory still crackling in the wires. This weekend I’ll go out walking and then track down the film.
