where are you in this abyss of daytime night walking that whispers with yesterdays memories a shard of light into our other selves the ones that do not die with the last season even if we felt a cold blanket of forgetting but we do not forget we just reremember our ending and continue forth wondering why a sidelong glance from a stranger is the lost yes of a lover or was it a glint of anger as if we have stolen something that they have left forgotten upon the desk where things like keys coins receipts and business cards go awash upon each other until a collage of lifes art is canvassed in a way that no one dares move anything for it may upset the balance of our remembering so we make more space upon its surface for it is all surface in this place this plane of our existence yet when we close our eyes when we reach out against the tide to hold onto a dream that woke us awash in tears for we do not wish to be pulled away again there lies the gate that she held open for you when you first promised to never forget her gift a breath that blew the dandelion seeds into a swirling world of greens yellows and blues it is called world and we walk among it as we await her call back to the ocean that shall draw us back we can never remember our beginning but we continue to long for yesterday because in it lies a promise some of us hold too tightly to this not realizing that we are awake walking we are asleep breathing and even if we create a memory from the bits of fabric buttons and thread left upon our desk it is simply a patchwork of what we have done living but it is not until our eyes open beneath the vast blue of her womb that we shall see that yesterday was a mirage and today will be not a memory but photograph that shall never fade
Forgive the jumble above as it is simply a response to finishing Neil Gaiman’s The Ocean At The End Of The Lane. I oft do not read much popular fiction, but this one had me intrigued, so I saw it on the cart and snatched it home for my one day off this week. In 90s heat with index gone redline, I read it outside, for it is that kind of book. A book that you would squirrel away under a shade tree near an ancient creek and read until your mouth had turned to cotton from the heat of the day – your child self never imagining to take a mason jar of water, only a handful of sweets to while away the reading hours. This is a book that can transport the child outside of the adult body. As the book reminds us, we are all still children living in adult skin. Some of us never survive our memories, and others of us can never quite forget the canvas of yesterday that goes repainted while the premise remains the same. Pain may ebb at the edges of our childhood visions waking us from our adult sleep, but for many of us we recreate a new waking in order to live.
typing these words i realize i have told you nothing – perhaps that is the best way to approach a book about remembering for we each weave our own story so that the quilt that covers us in sleep buries us deep with a promise of good dreams even if we get chased by a night scare or two hopefully your escape key is still there the one you learned about in order to vanish back to here for me it was an ornate iron bench as black as night but it stood stately no matter the scene and if i could manage to wiggle my child body under its body and wish myself awake my eyes would open to find the bed beneath me and the desk of yellow oak my grandfather made just to my right it was the room of reality but while laying there my child mind wondered which reality was really real
I have read some wonderful blog posts lately about memory. Not rambling, non-coherent ones such as this, but a discourse of intelligent dialogue that made me start wondering about memory. I posited to one blogger (shall try to track back to them tomorrow after my day is done) that it would be interesting if we lost our memory at age 40 – 50 as a right of passage. We would remember enough for normal living, and if need be, our job skills would come back almost immediately, but everything else would be new. It would perhaps save many who are haunted by yesterday’s pain or what might have been while plaguing many more with sorrow for a photograph of yesterday would just be that, even if their face was within it. Would we live life differently if we knew we started over midway through breathing…
when the day fades
may we enter into the color she promised behind her moon