“Time here is flat because there are no seasons, no way to remember when anything happened. You cannot say, “Oh yes, that was in the dark of winter when mother was in the hospital,” or “Right, this was in the luminous spring when we collapsed into a field of Mexican marigolds, cured ourselves of lightning strikes, and built freeways in and out of our dreams.” For all I know this Pringles thing could have happened yesterday. Maybe it was tomorrow. Actually, it might not have happened at all, now that I think about it. For a place that records so many things, it’s weird that nothing here is ever really remembered.” (more…)