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As a child I developed a fixation on that nebulous area I knew as my back. Not on it, it was a conceptional problem. I lacked the means to conjure a vision of what it was. I had only the normal sensory messages to surmise an outline. And it was a pure search, as yet neither fear nor apprehension was its motivating essence.

But soon (and it seems typical now) I began to wonder how it appeared to others. What did they see in it? Did I really possess a normal fluidity in movement? It wasn't just a case where, as a nine-year-old, I could practice my bending or improvise on my gait. It was a question of its relative importance to me, and to it what importance my peers were willing to leak—my backward identity, its nature. Naturally, my eyesight annoyed me. It seemed very unsuited to my need. I spent a great deal of time with my back to the bathroom mirror, a mirror in hand. I studied the effects of hairstyles, tightness in pants, how patterns, colors and materials played a role.

In the end, it was too much for someone my age to be asked to consider. In answer I fled toward docile tendencies in darkened rooms.

Yet as time developed I developed a memory. It was bothersome to realize I had a gowing past. And in my opinion it was an odd faculty to possess, feeling that it, in turn, required a monitor.

The pursuit of its function and its obvious lack of objectivity puzzled me for months, for something short of reason until I simply stumbled around it. My guess became that it was a delicate dictator—that, in truth, something was shredding the lesser facts.

I could construct models that proved the loss of large expanses of time. Losses in small units, yes, but when grouped together, increasing with the roll of months to the sum of months. Time spent for which I had no self-contained records. Time spent and discarded. Let us look at the calendar.

Between 1959 and 1962 a prime memory is Swedish Meatballs. A very visual memory and easy to recall. I loved them; besides the taste I enjoyed the use of a toothpick instead of a fork. They were a popular buffet item at the time and I remember that a simple appliance had been introduced onto the market specifically for the purpose of serving them.

We were on the P.T.A. circuit at the time. The meetings were held in the school auditorium and in private homes--the private home holding a slightly higher probability for the occurrence of meatballs. My mother, my brother, and I usually attended. But for all that attendance, the symbol of referral has become Swedish Meatballs with a votive candle underneath.