Hagar Cygler

There’s a story I think I know, vague details that add up to a larger story, a story I can tell and it sounds like it’s mine. telling this story pokes so many holes, it feels like I have nothing left. the vague details turn into a vague story, they make the story reliable, help me possess it, claim it as my own.

I make lists, lots of them. they follow me wherever I go, they carry me, help me understand my place in the world, setting the scene for myself, knowing when and where and what I have to be. words, short sentences, small details, each in a row. a list.

Can I understand the story from a list? like cooking with a recipe, I throw all the components in to make a story. it’s the vagueness that is leading this story, my obsession with order can not be applied. throw at me a photo, a figure, a puzzle and I will see all the small details in it, building a full and complex story. throw me into my own past and I will have nothing: half sentences, hesitated facts, a shaken identity stumbling on the feet of a lost legacy.