"The memory blocks desire, makes carbon copies of it, fixes it with strata, cuts it off from all its connections."

Deleuze and Guattari

I don’t remember bluer skies than on my cousins’ Kansas farm in the summer of ’99. Walking through their white country house I felt the strange stillness that comes only from contentment resting within the walls of each room, plain and tidy. I was nine years old and knew enough about wanting to know that these people wanted not.

I don’t remember falling off my horse into the black fence, or hearing the snap of arm bone. Getting back on the horse after falling was the stable rule to stop young girls from growing afraid, and with a boost from the trainer I was back on the horse. The break had been a clean one and only required a sling and no horseback riding, but it barely missed the growth plate in my shoulder and doctors worried one arm would be shorter than the other.