Later now, I'm stuck in the studio working on an illustration job. The door is closed to keep the playful cats out. It's cold and raw outside. The radio is on to local news. They're all talking about Kennedy. I have childhood memories of that day: it was cold and clear in the Chicago suburbs and there was this new thing between me and my perception of the world: the president has been shot. In the following days on a small television set the indelible images of the main aisle of a cathedral and horses drawing a hearse through the streets. The memories are dusty, desaturated and potent. It makes me think of memory as a growing land we pass by every day. Somedays a gate is open and we can go inside. But I'm too hungry in the present to make a meal of my memories yet. Soon…
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