The Nature of Memory: I Remember

Memory is a funny, fickle thing. When we want to forget things, we can't, and when we want to remember things... we can't. Sometimes, a smell, a piece of music, even a place we haven't seen in so long can coax a plethora of old, dusty memories to assert themselves. Little time machines. Memories of trauma can lead to the development of Dissociative Identity Disorder (DID) and in Alzheimer's patients,    newer memories disappear first, while older, mundane memories resurface.

In fact, from a scientific point of view, there is still so much we don't understand about the nature of memory. What is not debated is how important memories are to us and how influential they can be on us. They define a person and constitute their individuality. The idea of manipulating our memories or having them stolen away from us feels... heinous.

Perhaps the strangest and most precious gift of memory is when you rediscover something you haven't thought about in so long. A time, a place, a feeling, a sense, a being. Sometimes they're sad, sometimes their joyous, but each contributes to the person you are now. Let's do a writing exorcise: Write down as many things as you can starting with "I remember..." in 5 minutes. It's good to revisit old memories, to appreciate them, to cherish them, and to understand a little bit more about yourself.

I Remember 

I remember the fear I felt for my father.

I remember playing in the fountain in the front yard of my grandmother’s neighbor’s house when I was three. I remember playing with the pots and pans in my grandmother’s kitchen cabinets when I was three.

I remember the sound of the frog as it hit the water of Crescent Lake after he threw it from the shore. I remember its guts in its mouth.

I remember the scars on her thighs.

I remember the dream I had the night before last. I remember the car accident, being thrown through the windshield, landing on the hood of the other car, and the partial paralysis. I remember the grief when I realized I wouldn’t be able to perform poetry again. I remember the relief when I woke up.

I remember the necklace I threw to the floor in the hallway in high school, the Christ head with the engraving on the back that my godmother gave me when I was born. I never saw it again.

I remember the guilt when I let the wind take your tin full of meringues on Halloween.

I remember praying in Roman cathedrals for you to love me again.

I remember praying in Roman cathedrals for the strength to let you go.

I remember what my cat smelled like.

I remember burning my tongue on chicken fingers in the New Hampshire fog.

I remember when I learned the word, “Fuck.”

I remember just a moment ago.

I remember sobbing hysterically on the bathroom floor of the boy’s room in tenth grade. I remember the sound of confusion in the other boy’s voice when he found me there and told me he was sorry for whatever it was I was crying about.

I remember the smell of marijuana on her clothes.

I remember when I lost my virginity. It was O.K.

I remember when I used to spit on my teachers, curse them out, and punch holes in the walls.

I remember white rooms.

I remember the shower in the hospital, the glue from my hair coagulating on my shoulders. It was a long shower. 

The Preciousness of the Mundane: Secret House

I think we all have the ideal conception of a home or event that we would like to experience or live; an imaginary place that soothes us with the possibility of its existence. The most precious places are often stumbled upon unexpectedly, causing us to stand in awe of their quaintness. To a child, these conceptions are far more rampant and seem to exist wherever they go.

Trying to recapture the fascination and imagination of childhood in adulthood is, ironically, a skill to be mastered. The world seems more inclined to make us leave it behind than to hold onto it. Try to recall that sense of wonder when discovering something new and mundane in the backyard; the creepiness of the basement; the looming presence of the attic; or that patch of woods around the corner requires patience and passion. As a child, everything seemed so strangely special and we would amass these incredible stories, ludicrous explanations, to account for them. A cardboard box suddenly became a castle, or a space craft, or a cave.

These desires manifest themselves in ideals rekindled in adulthood: The dream house, the perfect wedding, or a happy career. That sense of wonder and appreciation of the mundane and trivial, however, is tossed by the wayside. I implore you to hold your inner child close and to allow his or her silly thoughts to cloud your mind from time to time. Slow down, anthropomorphize the monotony of your life, and add zeal to the bustle between dusk and dawn.        

Secret House

There is a place upon a mountain of crystal
High above city smog
A coveted place hidden in shadow
Shrouded in mist and fog
With walls clad with brick and stone
And windows of stained glass
Carpeted in kaleidoscopic flowers
With sunlight always cast
There are waterfalls and butterflies
A smell of honey and dew
A house of gingerbread, it seemed
Like a fairytale come true
Where no knees were ever skinned
But much mischief could be found
With adventures kept in every corner
And laughter thrown around
No memory was left behind
And no smiles to regret
Childhood stories forever told
That old minds could never forget  

The Smell of Money: Skullduggery

Cha-ching!

Have you ever rationalized through the use of money? Have you ever tried to trace back its original usage to discern how it developed into the way we use it today? I recognize the practicality with which it was employed, but in its present incarnation - everyone trying to maximize acquisition while minimizing loss, catching things while they're on sale, buying things with nonexistent money, and then accruing more money for not returning the money you didn't have in the first place - it seems to be no more than a farce. Morality is tossed by the wayside as the precession of the financial parade rolls by. A man is measured by the quality of his work, not the quality of his heart. In a corporate world, there are no allies.

There are some who have bowed at the feet of the Almighty Dollar, evoking its compassion and reaping of its supposed benefits. Though, it seems rather incongruent that our dreams and aspirations should come with a steep price tag. Is it non-negotiable? Sorry, but I'm on a budget. Why should we be limited by an economic reality? I see no Wall Street in nature. Does my soul carry a credit score? It seems ironic that currency is almost entirely made of cotton, while it rarely keeps us warm. I have met far more wealthy men with a poor character than I have met penniless men without a rich one.   
   

In whom does God's money trust?

Skullduggery

Walk alone

On a jagged road

No place to go

No home

To call my own

Want the best of this world with an empty pocket

Seal it up tight in a box or locket

Collect all the reveries and memories

And make a heart shaped balloon to take me far away from here

Thank God for imagination

My one way trip

My final destination

Wrapped me in the wounds of expectation

And sow me up tight

Don’t want any representation

No paperback dream

No voice to scream

No hands to bleed

And no eyes to free 

A faceless meaning in a blank dictionary

An insignificant dot in the obituaries

No synonyms

No acronyms

Wasted soul set to sail on a boat full of holes

Doomed to sink into this deep sea of wishes

That had to come true

Windowpane of longing

See, but don’t touch

No, can’t touch!

Need to prove to everyone something that can’t be seen

But you can lie to everyone, as long as you’ve got the “green”

Walleted world we live in

Everything is fraudulent

Set to mock and shun us

Make fun of us

The door to beauty stained

Tainted with the fingerprints of the deranged

Czar

President

King

Emperor

Ruler of the world

A filthy world

Lovely and once beautiful

She’s all that we’ve got

So you rape her

Deprave her

Try to escape her

Live in her womb while you try to claim her

Feeding off her insides

Glutton!

Tarring out her eyes

While you see nothing!

Bruise and break her

But she’s still prettier than you

So goodbye!

I won’t accept this play anymore

Theater of puppet strings

You pull while we push

Scars and calamity

Always dying in vain

Because we know

All those fingers

Are jammed back in your face 

Stringing You Along: Corsage, Croissant, Crochet, Croquet

We've all been backstabbed by someone we thought we knew. Someone we loved who reciprocated only to snuff it out; a friend we confided in who spilled the precious beans; a risk taken only to result in failure. Sometimes it is intentional. Other times no one can rightfully be blamed. Spite and anger always seem to be the first emotion resorted to in such instances. Perhaps there is some evolutionary explanation as to why. Perhaps there is a savage benefit to spitting in the face of something that once was.

Venting is a healthy way of dealing with such intense reactions, especially if they are out of our control. Sometimes, the powers that be ordain things that cannot be shaped by our attempts to change them; when one half of a duel party refuses to alleviate the situation, the other half must depart. Providing yourself with a robust route of dispensing of your anger and spite will prove far better for the heart and mind in the long run than bottling it up or even allowing it to burst forth. 

That's why the arts are so important: Music, painting, photography, writing all provide the most successful and healthy routes of attenuation. Hatred never helped anyone - Go write a poem!  

Corsage, Croissant, Crochet, Croquet

Swallow your tongue…

Digest your own weak imaginings!

Essence I shall bung;

Oh, how I would love to cleanse your muddy footprints

From this place.  

Demystify the fossils;

Fill in the cavities with concrete,

Like the lungs you falsely filled,

While you don’t deserve to breath!

You cauterized the dagger

That now wriggles in my back,

A joystick that you grab

To lead me along

This Mobius path.  

I will take quick pleasure

In ripping it free!  

A champagne rain to bath and boil bloody mead.

I pulled you from the sand, but left you dangling from a string;

Freedom isn’t gathered with a shackle or a stitch,

It doesn’t matter if you feed or beat the bitch,

It will bite you back.  

I found myself in a bathroom stall,

I was fading painting on a peeling wall,

It was a porcelain kind of forever

In a plastic canon ball.  

I’ll throw shrapnel in the eyes of all you so fiercely guarded

And all the opportunities you so sweetly pardoned.

A figment of fiction is truth in all its vindications

And now the threat is imminent,

A valedictorian vendetta;

A glistening inscription.

Your accord has been cut,

Raped in your wedding dress,

Grinding off the malaise

As the partitions you press

To get drunk off the plaster.  

I’ll place the coin beneath your tongue before the trumpets begin to play

If that’s not proof of a foreclosed heart,

Than what more do you want me to say?

I HAVE A BOOK COMING OUT

I'm still working on the title, but it will be a collection of poetry with an overarching theme of death. I'm shooting for an April, 2013 release. Stay tuned for more details! 

Destructive Criticism: The Worst Decision

A lot of people are self-defeating. We take external pressures, flaws inherent in others that are too often deposited on ourselves, and allow them to persuade us to change. We attempt to conform to the demands of society, the people around us, or even global trends without a thought for the consequences. There are a lot of people walking around with a skewed sense of self - a definition of identity built from years of constantly attempting to quell the murmurs of others. As a result, many of us are disillusioned and unhappy, and are sincerely unaware as to why. We have inadvertently and systematically killed ourselves.

A path to find yourself...

All ultra-violence aside, a flawed self-identity is precisely the catalyst that leads to flaws in the self-identities of others. When we are unhappy with who we are, we impart onto others that unhappiness, which breeds further self-damaging behavior in both parties. One is far too often the cause of their own demise and the seed-sower of others'.

With the harkening of 2013 upon us, a time for unkept resolutions, it is time you began listening to who you are and began committing to your own sense of self. When others pressure you to conform or modify to fit their moulds, instead of objectifying yourself to pull out the "flaws," fortify the uniquenesses you know and strengthen the self you deserve to be. Idolize yourself, learn to love every "mistake" and "shortcoming" that makes you you, and commit to changing things about yourself for you and no one else. You must make it a habit; the self is in a constant state of construction, of becoming. You have the potential to be your own messiah or your own murderer.

Down, but not out!

In the end, 

it's you who listens to the bullshit others have to say.             

The Worst Decision

Death is not an easy prize to gain:

You can’t just fill out the slip and,

‘Please, clearly sign your name.’

Suicide is not something I would prescribe,

No matter how you deem it worth the loss,

There’s no reason you should have to die.

Hold tight to what you have,

It's more than just evolving remnants of mom and dad,

It's choices that carve up the past

And shape the future

That only you can make last.

May I proceed to cure the beast,

To solidify the righteousness conceived?

Are these the weights you wish to bequeath,

To pin the guilty hand on me?

Ring you out like a sponge;

Set you off like a gun;

Sever the cord of a broken spine;

You’re a book, but they judge what lies inside.

Whet the palette and rub the scars.

Dig your own grave to reach for the stars.

Sharpen a knife on a fork;

Buy into family, but shoot down the stork.

Bundled up peace – beat like a dog.

Swallow the key – sleep like a log.

Let go of all the things you've lost.

Don’t kill yourself to survive the battles fought.

Self-destruction stops permanent construction;

Soul disjunction nullifies finding your function.

Never choose to be the victim or the killer,

Or, even, the weapon of your own murder. 

What's the Harm in Fantasy?: Concrete Balloon & Cloud Cover

To be a good writer, you have to know how to pretend. You have to be willing to talk to yourself, to act out a scene, to think abstractly, and to experience things that cannot be experienced. You have to be an expert in the world that you create. You have to be its God.

For the most part, life isn't very concrete, if you think about it. Certainty is, itself, a fantasy. It is the illusion of certainty that keeps us comfortable, but every so often something comes along and jars that comfortability. I think good writing taps into this uncertain aspect of life. That meager "What if?" that persists is played upon in the act of reading, and a good writer can make it feel real. Indeed, sometimes, the more abstract something is, the more concrete it feels. We can impart onto it any meaning we want and make it a part of ourselves. The more ludicrous the premises, the more attractive the conclusion.

A good story gives us the gift of flight. It gives us the ability to fly to someplace beyond our everyday existence. It is a vacation taken between two flyleaves; page trekking, if you will. And the writer is your tour guide. No one should be punished for daydreaming a little - That's how writers workout! The mind is a xanadu, if you furnish it well. We need fantasy to set goals. Our ideas of the future are constructions of something that doesn't yet exist. And I strongly believe that to reach for the stars, you have to put your head in the clouds.      


Concrete Balloon

When you fall into my eyes
I feel like I can fly,
As if awakening a sleeping dream
Inside a concrete balloon.
Beestings hold my soul together,
But I've been pruned.
You plucked my final feather
And how my wings will carry me now,
I can only assume.
My shoes are coming loose,
While these fragile wings flicker,
To be harvested from my back
And chewed.
I curl my limbs in
To stretch the skin over my eyes.
As gravity absconds me
And leaves the ambiance to hang like a noose,
I drag my concrete balloon.
Drowsy eyes you tumble through,
Shattering and smattering
My mind with you.    
Shards of glass protrude
Through perfect skin,
Through blood and bruise.
Outstretch your hands to catch
The ground and drown in the swoon.
Let the sky dilute
All of you.
You and I
We fly like concrete balloons.

Cloud Cover

There is an endless sea
That lies beyond the sky
Where every little mistake
And hurting
Are cast aside
Where the wooden hulls of happiness
Never crack
Where the heart-shaped waves
Never break
Where the shores of pain and longing
Are never met
And where the highflying sun
On the wings of love
Never sets

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When We're Born We Forget And When We Die We Remember

A few years ago, on Christmas Eve, my family engaged a discussion on the nature of the afterlife. My uncle memorably suggested, "I believe, when we're born we forget... and when we die, we remember." Though perhaps not an entirely unique proposition, the nature of what it means to be alive (or even Being itself) and what it means to cease existence has been the pensive essay of nearly every great mind and man alike.

I have always been struck by the strange kinship between things in this world. Everything - from the tiniest cell to the tallest mountain - seems to possess a token of being traceable to me. As if we equally share in this existence. Indeed, it seems undeniably so. In relation to our observation, the web of the spider appears quaint against the anatomy of the bicycle, with little explanation as to why.

But from what do we come and whereto do we go? We are each constructed from atoms concocted in the hearts of nubile stars that emerged millions of years after the Big Bang, or so the accepted theory goes. We are, therefore, recycled. In this regard, ourselves, the web, and the bicycle are equals. And what becomes of the us once the atoms fall away, to become other things all together? May the memories of a stone or an insect somehow find their way, however subtly, into our minds? Do the emotions of a long-since moldered tree contribute to your overall disposition? How many lives do you suppose exist inside you?

Perhaps, when everything is said and done, we each revert to a primordial spiritual gumbo from which all that is has its emergence. Not in a physical sense, but a transcendent one, in which all that may be comprehended resides - all truths, all knowledge, all understanding. Perhaps that is what it truly means to remember.      

When We're Born We Forget And When We Die We Remember 

Curious
This here flesh
This touch I've here received
Why do I feel as though I've awoken
From an endless sleep?
The world is filled with something dull
A light
Not quite as bright
My eyes are having trouble adjusting
To these curious sights  
Deja vu
Is that you I'm feeling?
New faces I've never seen
Yet I could have sworn I passed you
In an endless dream

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The Last Leaf In Autumn

Autumn has always struck me as a uniquely bitter season. All the other seasons seem to seep into one another, gradually transforming into the next, but not autumn. Autumn is very sudden. There is always a day when you realize summer is over and autumn has arrived. It strikes with a chill or a smell. Though perhaps cliche, it is like a sickness onto death. A change of color marks the coming gloom; the shedding of beauty to make way for bony, pale anatomy. One last hurrah. The flame of a dying Phoenix before the ash. 

Autumn is humbling and appears spooky even without the commercial bunkum. The wind changes its flavor, while animals thicken their skin. I think autumn is the most beautiful season because it allows us to reflect on the revelry of summer and prepare for the uncertainty of winter. It is a time of thankfulness, of appreciation, of maturity, and reflection.  

It is a gift of forgetfulness so that we may savor the sweetness of the memory. 

The Last Leaf In Autumn

I had found myself amid the rubble of a pallid forest

that had been shaved of its motley plumage.

Their proud and glorious manes lay as runners on the muddy floor;

their frail and coiled appendages did little to warm the air

as autumn gasps slithered unimpeded through them.  

The colors had all but forgotten this frozen hall

that I had worked the will to bird dog.

To this, I came upon a particular gosling of gloom:

Ruggedly profuse with tumors and twists;

the belly bent and the shoulders collapsed.

There upon a scanty digit hung a tattered leaf.

It batted and fidgeted in the autumn whisk. 

For dear life it hung,

its tiny will incessant,

its color of a cogent mustard 

with freckles and holes.

I winced in curious compassion

at this scarred and lifeless lock

flung out into the approaching cold.

I reached out my finger tip to touch it

as it swayed and danced in the torturous tide,

until its nurtured anchor was whittled down to sawdust

and sent it, lucid and inert,  

lolloping toward the ground.

My crestfallen hand fell with her,

tracing her roiling cascade,

until she met her siblings atop the blanketed grave,

to decay;

as if destined to decay.

I stood alone,

the sole witness to her fall, 

while a eulogy seemed appropriate,

but would not follow.