Tag Archives: memory

#351 ~ Miscellaneous.2: I Had Forgotten

(Written during my month-long absence – during a slightly sentimental time it seems)

I had forgotten how beautiful I was. I had forgotten how joyful my life was, how my smile was a mega-watt lightbulb that lit up rooms, how my voice, when it stopped contorting and trying to be an acrobat, was so rich, beautiful, soft and tender, that it had a laugh that slipped through like a river.

I had forgotten how my greatest desire was to be in a band and to sing, and let my heart float through the notes and touch you. How I wanted it to escape my chest and burn in the atmosphere, my voice as a song, the song as my heart, my heart as a voice that sings straight into the dark and brings the filaments of the mega-watt bulb out, divides the parts and still shines.

My goodness, I had forgotten how incredible I was. I had let somebody walk off with my stuff and he didn’t know he had it because I didn’t tell him I had placed my soul in a plastic bag and sent it to him in a Facebook message – how foolish. To look without glasses at my picture and forget – who I was.

I had forgotten how powerful I was, how stunning, how I was changing the world by just being. I had forgotten that I was a joy bringer of power, that I had a desire and I could run and sing and shout and change the world

I had forgotten ME in that plastic bag and it came back in a song by people who chanted Freedom and I had Forgotten

I had forgotten

My God I had forgotten how Incredible IAM

was

is

I had

forgotten

I didn’t need idols

I needed you

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#325 ~ 7 Things ABout Christmas.4 – The Meal

We are pretty traditional in my house. Christmas might as well be synonymous to dry meat. Yes, turkey is a dry meat. That is why cranberry sauce was invented, because the meat is dry, dry, turkey meat is dry ( i think you get the picture). The few bits of dark meat, which means flavoursome, succulent meat, is confined to the scrawny legs and the flesh closest to the rib cage – and in our house if you aren’t quick you find yourself staring at a mournful tray of turkey breast, all the brown mean having been nyamed/munched/devoured whilst you were considering whether parsnips would redeem brussell sprouts. However, what makes the meal so exciting, bar the fact that in general we manage to have more people round the table than we have matching chairs, is that something is always forgotten. 

Last year it was said Cranberry sauce – I have never seen gravy poured so selfishly. The year before the parsnips faded into memory. This isn’t to say we neglect to purchase said items, far from it. There just seems to be a disjuncture between the fridge and the table. Things get swallowed up and forgotten in the hustle and bustle of arranging cutlery, folding napkins, saying grace and munching the food. It’s when that dry bit of turkey gets stuck in your air waves that you remember the jar of cranberry sitting all innocently in the fridge door. 

This year, we embraced the fact that something would be omitted from our menu. I went for stuffing, my sister said pigs in blankets. 

Bread sauce won. 

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#310 ~ One Hundred Words and a Photo: 30

picture30A promise. I would capture your memory and lock it to my ribcage, interlocked bones wearied from age, bearing up under the weight of a memory, a promise.  I locked my heart to that fence and sealed it with a kiss, framed in words. That I would capture my memory and lock it to these pages, within this post of words that have flowed, with an unrecognized depth from my lips, releasing the ossified cage, interlocked, weary from age. And all along, she flowed beneath me, whispering a promise, a cold promise, fathomless, with dead bodies that would not forget.

Copyright: Death of the Writer – my own photo to finish the show

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#195 ~ In Memorium

In Memorium is where I go

when the memories of my mental crematorium

explode

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#149 ~ Wander

And so i wandered. Not lonely as a cloud, formless and ephemeral, to be filled with condensation and the sky’s perspiration, but as a silent body. I sifted through the folds of soothing summer air, that spread their limbs and enfolded me, drawing me into the intimate vortex, covered and condensed. The arching muscles in my shoed feet soon curled around the scatterings of gravel, the fine dust lacing sandstone hands into the crevasses of hardened skin.

I wandered, a silent being free from the Noise. The sounds of chattering and laughing, questions, music, texts and calls, messages, notifications, car horns and cat-calls. I folded myself in two, wrapped my legs close to my chest and moved, quietly, between the folds of the night.

It was a soft kiss that grazed my lips, as the wind caressed me, gently. Alone, enveloped in the womb, free from time and constraints. I was struck once again by the beauty of its paths, the magnitude of its buildings and manicured lawns. The history that called, beckoned before withdrawing into the recess of time, the quiet time, the silent time.

I remembered once more, how beautiful it was before I clouded its translucent visage with fears, anger, resentment, shouting and Noise.

And then I yearned to see you at the break of dawn.

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#85 ~ Ararat

What is the greatest  act of genocide man can enact? Is it the systematic eradication of a race? The slow torture and obliteration of the very scent, sign, or inclination of their existence? Is it the removal of a name? A language? A faith, a culture and eventually a history?

Can we be consigned to silence?

Or rather, within the silence that permeates our lives, is there a definitive version of the truth?

Because silence breathes. It lives, it eats, it moves. It encroaches, and if you listen hard enough it speaks. We often think its voice is timid, muted, creeping along the floorboards, tugging at our trouser leg like an intimidated child, trying but not really wanting, to get our attention. We think it is shy, it suffers from a speech impediment, and therefore lets its older sibling Noise steal the lime-light. Often we believe that Silence is in an intimate relationship with the very distant relative who is ‘accidentally’ excluded from family events, Death. Their love, we assume, is a deep love, sensuous, perverse, and all-encompassing. It is inescapable making them symbiotic beings, intertwined, intermingled, like the ecstatic eye-beams of Donne’s erotic Ecstasy. They begin to allude to one another, Silence becomes Death just as Death becomes Silence.

But Silence has her own story. At times it is contrapuntal to History. That’s right, her cousin History. He is the ‘nerdy’ one. You often find him in the library till the early hours of the morning, sometimes just waiting for waking sunbeams to strike the corners of his lenses, illuminating a missing fragment of a forgotten letter. Yet even the stories that History tells as they sit round the bonfire, eagerly awaiting the creation of new lands, new voices, new people and characters, Silence has heard and seen before. Look closely and she is there. Watching that dawn break, peeping quietly over his shoulder to also read, also interpret and also remember that forgotten piece of text.

Silence speaks loud and clear and often. In fact she speaks the most. She resides within the breaths that Noise hurriedly snatches from her permeating tranquility. Neither is she confined to the external, but gently caresses your mind,when you sleep, when you wake, she is speaking. She steals into the fragile pages that History greedily consumes, at every blink of his eye she eats her way further and further into the story until she is immersed, she has merged, she is the story. Even within History she is present, sometimes unseen, unacknowledged, simply ignored because she appears to be of no harm, but she is there waiting.

Waiting for one question.

Why?

When you ponder aloud, when you actively read and simply ask that question, even if it’s – but why was he called that? – she will answer. She will tell you another story, one that History missed, or didn’t think was good enough for his bonfire tales.

Silence will sing you a lullaby. Sometimes it is joyful, often mournful, it may be long, tedious, confusing and convoluting, but her voice is sweet. If you can stay awake long enough, if you are lured by the siren that hides deep within this stuttering-child, you may be enticed to ask more questions. To say that word again, that question, yes, why?

Silence speaks in the fiction that dares to ask another question. The fiction that dares to approach Mount Doom from the raging eyes of a vulnerable, insecure, inflamed eye, and not the golden hearted hobbits with cut feet and stomachs full of lembas bread. Fiction dares to give the archetypal nemesis who raped and ravaged the body of child of 5, the exposure of his humanity, fragile as it may be, as he tends the ailing body of his mother, eaten up by cancer, his depravity acknowledged alongside other parts of his fractured identity. Fiction dares to acknowledge the massacre of the Armenia people and their genocide of 1915, which, if acknowledged is consigned deep in the recesses of memory,

What is the greatest act of genocide a man can enact?

To remove the voice of Silence, by preventing fiction from capturing memory, and within that, perhaps not the  but a truth that informs us of someone’s very real, very human, identity.

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#48 – Familial Shard

They bring a little piece of home with them

It wafts over

like a scent from memory

it’s foggy, hazy, with a subtle degree of opacity

But it’s there, emerging from the Unconscious

That deep, sweet, piece of home

That family brings

A familial shard, with a familial ring

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