writing from the woods

gustave le gray, "tree" (1855)

this will come about at a later date; what follows will only form slowly, afterward. recounting a fumbling, pyramid of a year i stretch to the left, to the right, forward and back. it only becomes real in this small, wooden room that i am unfamiliar with. trying to attribute familiar memories. framed photographs in haunting new places. subjects linger in the frame, asking me out loud (while they pull my sleeves): "what are we doing here?"
i have no answer for them; the faces i am trained to know as a memory, but not able to remember.