You have memories that aren’t yours.
Other-worldly, they sing to you. They cry to you sometimes. But mostly they just beckon.
Come, they say, come back to us.
You remember being a particle-wave, a light being, floating dreamily across, drifting, warping the continuum, until all you can do is laugh at the twin jokes of space and time.
And yes, how you laughed.
But silly, greedy you, you always want more.
You hunger for the senses you chose to leave behind. You lust again for what was once yours, and once given up.
You gave it all up willingly then…
Golden prism in the lake
Playing peek-a-boo with me
Glinting merrily in the sun
What are you trying to tell me?
Old soul girl sitting on the shore
I want you to enjoy life a bit more
Out there, where the past and present combine
That’s where home is, for which you pine
Resting back upon the lazy afternoon
The sun at its peak in the sky
Glinting lazily, it tells me to slow down
It’s worthwhile, my dear, take your time
Life, it will wait for you, my love
Fret not, hurry not, watch not the clock so much
No one prepared me for the heckling crows.
The movies showed the crows portend evil. Often sitting on the stone pile next to the creaky old gate. Silhouette captured against a murderous scarlet sky.
That one eye following you wherever you go. The Monalisa effect, they called it.
But no one prepared me for the heckling crows.
Oh, there was that one time that a crow flew into aunt’s kitchen, just as they were frying pieces of fish for Sunday’s family lunch.
It smelled of fish and grease and turmeric. And it hung in the air, hinting at the aftermath…
Sleep recedes like Stonehenge raining on me. Each massive piece rocking me in tidal upheaval to the world of here and now.
And I say words I never thought I’d ever say. Or hear anyone else say, for that matter.
“I am so glad she spit on my face!”
If she hadn’t, I might not have woken up. And then the poor baby would’ve suffered more.
That’s how my Fourth of July began. With the cat spit on my face, I got up, bewildered and frightened. What had she ingested ?
The lights revealed the dismembered remnants of a glow…
LP, they called it. Such a bland, formal name. A name that creates power distance even before you finish saying it. A name that wears a tie to dinner.
Records, we called them as children.
But they were so much more, weren’t they?
Sexy shining black discs, almost like they were extra-terrestrial, even from conception.
Grooves etched with delicate care. Perfection disguised in monochrome. Playing groovy tunes.
Tunes of rebellion, you say? But of course.
Tunes of breaking away. Like a teenager. With angst at its peak. You’ve got to belt it all out. And the record plays its part.
I watch him from behind the cover of a bush.
He is entranced, in some faraway place my mortal eyes cannot perceive. There is the tiniest hint of an upward curve to his mouth. Not quite a smile, but certainly the suggestion of inner joy.
There’s a glow behind his eyelids, making me want to partake of the cinematic unfolding happening behind the screen of his closed eyes.
Again, I am to be left out.
He is emaciated, the skin on his lower ribs clinging on with desperation for life support, yet with a loving intensity that silences and stills…
When did it start?
Perhaps when we kept walking past the tacky gold chandelier, mumbling: we must replace. But never getting around to it.
Tacky life and tacky relationship always in the way.
Distaste breeding chasm like a pair of pliers prying apart the fixture.
By then it can’t be fixed of course.
Take away the tacky chandelier but you can’t take away the tacky everything-else. Which is now tattered in addition to being tacky.
And so, we stage another Regal Walk-away.
The solution to all problems. Just walk away. Look back, memorize, breathe, leave. The code to emotional untangling.
The river moves. And you move, just like the river.
Indomitable. Undeterred. Resolute.
You are challenged, time and time again. And you rise to it, each time.
There, on that mountain bypass, you find a route around the big boulders.
Sometimes you gush greedily, hopping over pebbles and rounding the edges of even those most stubborn barriers.
Your presence is stronger than the rocks, whose corners you erode over millennia past.
Where are you going? I ask, hoping to stop you short on your stride.
But you throw a merry twinkling glance at me over your shoulder, letting me know…
“Do not go gentle into that good night, but rage, rage, rage against the dying of the light.”