I have become obsessed with scraps. There are scraps everywhere in my home and on my person (love that, my person). I have become quite brutal with these watercolor, collage, pen and ink postcards that I feel I must check myself and take a break. But I’ve been working so fervently and ferociously, and the brutality has become part of the whole process of constructing and destroying. I love the words which peek-a-boo like memories. Not specific memories but how we remember: in bits and pieces, filling out the gaps with exaggerated pain or happiness. These words are glimpses of the past, old wallpaper in a dilapidated building, walls that lay witness to events which in turn leave their imprints on the walls, and reformulate as ghosts. I’m enjoying the therapy I’m getting from these postcards. So why would I stop?