Walls cover the walls, towers lay out the path to follow, the ways in and out. There are bandages wrapped around broken vessels, leaving behind tiny fragments of their former lives. White, black, ocher, red: my hand shapes it into possibility. I see in it the copper, the silicon, the lime; some ancient fish, an eagle’s talons, the eyes of a wildcat, blood, a cow, rains and landslides.
The earth is memory and keeps its first form, its first memory, for itself. She doesn’t forget it because she knows that the hand is also made of clay. We are what we remember.
Gloria García Lorca