A memory of a fury grey poisonous asp caterpillar shaped like an inverted orange slice, held in the palms of my hands.

A memory of falling from a tree swing tied to a live oak branch, laying on my back, looking straight up from the ground, wind knocked out of my lungs from the fall.

A memory of seeing the Goodyear GZ N-Class blimp fly over Santa Monica thinking it was an atom bomb.

A memory of green ants dream of Werner Herzog eating his shoe at Ayers uranium mine.

Back in the studio.

A memory of watching 1950s sitcom TV series. Men and women talk and laugh.

A memory of trucks pulling up and driving away at a truck stop strip club in Georgia, 1995.

A memory of a young woman standing in a kitchen behind the counter with a stove. She picks up various kitchen utensils and names them, gestures with exaggeration.

A memory of driving down the Sunset Strip in mom’s gold Corvair, in Hollywood listening to The Doors in 1968. A lucky little lady in the city of lights, or just another lost angel.

A memory of seeing a pile of wrecked gondola lift cars with a frosted silhouette of a girl pressing her face and hands into the window at the end of the POP pier in Santa Monica in 1962.