Long ago, I lost it, the black camisole with a logo of Devils Tower stamped in silver. Still it shimmers in memory, like a lost constellation. The logo was thin as a lichen, flaky. I saw little resemblance to the landform that gave rise to it. Why does it loom large? Perhaps because of the gossamer light it continues to cast for me? Memory acts like a radio tower, broadcasting signals only I can (fitfully) hear: a triangulated tale— who I wanted to be, who I was really, whom I might still become. So, maybe, if I just stand here, a little longer, near up-surging evidence— vanished lava and the Sundance Sea— I will unscramble. I will understand.
This one is making me think. I love Devil’s Tower and any landform that seems so out of the blue, out of place. But, in fact, it is perhaps we who are out of place? Anyway, the logo language and imagery intrigues me when paired with memory. Have to think more on it.
This one is making me think. I love Devil’s Tower and any landform that seems so out of the blue, out of place. But, in fact, it is perhaps we who are out of place? Anyway, the logo language and imagery intrigues me when paired with memory. Have to think more on it.