Fresh Cashews Old Songs

König Galerie, Berlin, Germany

I never know how I’m going to feel. I go to the river expecting a good time, smell fresh cashews cooking; they remind me of an old friend long gone, and suddenly I’m not at the river. I’m in my head at the pool-hall, playing pinball with a cigarette laying on the glass top, smoke curling up stinging my eyes, lights and bells flash and ring; I’m feeling sorrow for the missing who and the head-spinning, foggy past and picking myself up one more time. My non-stop churning mind tosses out smells, pictures, and sounds one after another, again and again––here, relive the death of a friend–– But now I know. I don’t have to be afraid of painful memories. I can let them be. They’re just like hearing a beautiful old song.