He says, at first, he’s a connection between and beyond the logics of all his affective memories. Once he was able to collect and put together a group of memories that would define and draw him perfectly in the present time, then he would become past. He disregards the credits if they come announced as pure creators – in a creative “birth giving” sense. Established that he is no more than spectrums of memories encompassed in time and space, no creation is actually real for the memories are appropriations of his self being and also of his deep glances of attention at life: that’s why he’d rather be handled personally as a composer other than a creator. Composer as in the one who composes things, who collects and values whichever memories are most affective and draws a thin line which is both imaginary and necessary to the cohesion of the phasic settlement in time of everything that boiled and burst into that specific sequence of events.
Memories are not actually chosen, as they might choose themselves if they’re free enough. He says he should only be sufficiently alert to perceive the moments they agitate and mix, in order to stop time in slots of places where only memories can tell are essential for him to revisit. Memories are also never disassociated of one another, they aggregate in layers and sum up eventually to a significance that is confunded and coexistencial – though never may he think them as only parts: memories are unique and not coercive to one another. To agglutinate senses and points of view towards a thought is not to coerce into one another. Those are some arrows towards the direction he’s led when thinking of memories. He’s deeply touched by the things that describe him throughout time. He tends to understand his composition as present as he composes and as past immediately as he’s composed.
As he looks back, the narrative of the memories are so deeply stuck in the time they started to live that, even though he stares at them with blind love, he is to see them as limited registers of himself. He is to believe, by perception, that his overview on his skyline is furthermore detailed and framed at very much larger dimensions than those that image can provide. It feels as if he had photographed each of his memories and, by staring at them, he could clearly notice his eyes ranging wider than the borders of the printed paper. Life, then, would be narrowed down by each one of his perspectives towards the past and, therefore, magically, when he intended to pull his wishes away in the future, life would become a huge exponential telescope chasing the broadminded.
He tries to conceive images every now and then so he’s dazzled by their visual composition. If colours match in tone as much as memory describes the vivacity of the lights, then the picture is dashed while it lasts in that format, even if in mind. He’s very well touched by images, may them be however they like.
As anything in life, never would a pattern be welcome to the completion of his undefined memoir. He aims at overcoming formats and medias in order to stop shriveling memories. He believes that what strikes him visually, sonically, cosmically astrologically in ways he can’t quite understand is what leads his narrative.
He imagines a symbiotic relation between image and memory. Image exists only, and just only, because memory is possible for human reality. Image is illegitimate if it doesn’t carry inborn emotions within it. Perfectly registered images are individuals in a memorial universe. The spirit of the captured frame of picture, or moving picture, essentially has to embody the same energy, visually, that the moment while lasting did, lively. Then, images are images to him.
The tone, as much as the disposition of the colors in a pictured memory, may be either too sensitive to the eye-fading of the image or too saturated if occasions demand the memory to be the first flicks of itself. Visualizing and signifying colors is quite much more a skeptical impression of the inner than the outer. The colors, as well as the lights, if combined into the feeling of the memory as an irredeemable living period, are to lead his memories into their infinite pure sense of nostalgia.
The extension of his memories through imagery come in a solid sense of what they meant to him despite of what he might have imagined they could mean – very much in a spirit of indulgence people sometimes have towards flashback situations.
As for flashbacks, he enjoys taking them up through epiphanic experiences the most. He finds comforting to be able to rely on images at times. It is true that he is not always inclined to concretizing memories pictorially, as he himself said before that there must be no patterns for memory births. On the other hand, he is glad to have image as a possibility amongst countless other.
He wanders at the idea nothing should be said as ultimate but, ultimately, memory concerned in terms of composition, through different kinds of rescue and formats, is nothing but very intense drawings by skeptic ideals. Skepticism presumes no certainty and no truth can be attained by the human spirit, condition which soon inserts him in an intellectual position of everlasting doubt and inability to absolutely comprehend the real. After all, he theorizes this is the way it is mainly because real could be inconceivable as all is composition.