Friday, December 30, 2016


What I got for Christmas. Some love.  A couple of journals. Food. A wish for happiness.
It's hard to say why we seek and why we love what we get.  My older boy gave me a gold bracelet; fake gold but still pretty. The scarf he choose that is warm and soft.  Older boy gave a lot of gifts as if to make up for his absence.

You don't know what you have until it is gone.  Like memory. Its always with us until one day it begins to be lost like dead skin cells flaking away to nothingness.  The jumble of thoughts and the spider words on a page lost in the deep space of blankness.

Memory is a cheater as well. You can't see backwards without the help of photographs. Those small wells of water that we drink from at Christmas to reinvent relationships and family bonds. In photographs we see our younger selves, our purity before it was lost so to speak, the damage done to us by the world which kills everyone.

In photographs memory is frozen in ice cube bundles that you put into your mouth so that you can bear the numbing cold as it dissolves. It's in photographs and not in poems that you get sledgehammers of recognition. You see what was and it was good.  You don't realise how good it was at the time. You don't even recognise how good it was even now until you go back and see how good it was. At the time it seemed just regular ordinary life. But it was good because as there is time ironing all the wrinkles out of the mind to nothingness but flat you have this day where things aren't as good as they were in the past. It's still good but not that good. Its a different sort of good where maturity helps you to deal with aging and the inevitable processes associated with aging such as the skin cells of memory flaking off the body of the past.

When I looked at the cascade of photographs in a video presented to us by my sister in law it was as if rapture and rupture happened at the same time.  A video of time so to speak in photographs crystallised the fruits of our labour with our sons. Here are the boys as babies. Here they are as small beings darting in the forest trail. Here they are with their cousins. Here they are as young boys at the side of the ocean. Here they are like adults. It's a leap in photographs from stone to stone in path laid in a river of memory.

Ah, the river of memory. What do I do here other than speak of memory? What do I do in poems other than transcribe memory for the purposes of relief that we survived our lives? What else do we do in the world other than make memory and rehearse past memory? It's all memory.

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