Cliché of memory
The past, our memories, remembering, membering the ring of the phone is no longer what was, the ring of the bell at the door is no more we’ve left so much behind and no longer know where we are where we’ve been where we are going except the end the assumed darkness of eternal sleep and dust.
It is painful to realize that our membering is now shaped by what others have described, foretold, written, or portrayed. I feel betrayed by my own membering. The images in my mind of what I dredge out of life long ago, agos are long, agos may be false. (I wish the film the score the stars of this membering were true to what was. I have no confidence that any of it is true, I have no confidence that it is not and perhaps the true is that it is remembered at all?)
It is for me a treacherous path to follow, the path to membering, the laying dying and thinking or thinking I am thinking.
The first female, the first love, every love then was the first love, was it love?, was it just youthful hormonal everything? Declarations of love ~ was that easy?, no it was then and now uncommon, uncommon and yet membrance that I did declare and at the least in membrance besotted and sotted if such a word exists now it did then. Language changes this was a love in a foreign land, besotted with the land the life the time the youth the sun, all the elements of not home yet at home at home yet knowing in youthful tragedy that leaving is ahead, besotted with the romance of the tragedy besotted with myself, besotted with her. Was/is any of this true? Some.
Membrance of a boy who outlier wanted to befriend, I was not and am not the best of humanity, I accepted the gesture, I wondered at the offer of friendship but we were too different, the situation was too much in my youth to understand and accept with grace. Nor am I now graceful.
Inheritance of ungracefullness a grand legacy bequeathed upon my brow by nearly two decades of training to be — uncouth. Not proud, now, then? I do not know, fear well not fear hesitant and faint-hearted to answer positively.
The worlds collided and some debris thrown off remains stuck in my mind and those bits some like meteor showers sparkle regularly flash and dazzle. Where have all the others gone?
The father who was not the father, not my Father at least in name, but the father nevertheless, who sat and talked with (not to) me, who sat and sipped and smoked and taught that me how to do those things. Who would talk to me as a person and not a subject of his realm. Unusual then, foreign to my understanding of who I was/had been.
Then the woman, the mother also not the mother but was my Mother in my name, to my name without my name, my name being unpronounceable, took me under wing under roof they both did but she and a daughter brought me under and while I was destroyed, dis-eased, ill with terror of failure, propped me up and under roof understood, a little, that the bird was not flown but the bird had cradled (arms to legs grasped holding tight) in a kind of foggy state. Made the bird a home to the great discomfort of a member true of the family. The mother arranged the family rearranged and life continued.
How little of this is true? Does truth matter for this these kinds of membering? How much of this is true if all of it matters?
There is a softness clouds cloudy to the hardness of that youth. Perhaps pitiful, he lay there breathless wounded by more than current (then) events that drove him from that form of Egypt into the arms of a different Rome, or perhaps a Canton to Rome or perhaps this is no longer important, as it was only barely important and once exposed not important at all. Faith falters during youth when reality continues to thankfully affect the ‘facts’ of faith. Suddenly what was believed to be true is revealed to be different, not false (though maybe that) but what was important is revealed and what is important becomes clearer.
To become a part of something and that the something is not striving to be torn apart, driven apart. To comprehend how this was going to be, how to be this way, what is life lived this way? A foreign way a foreign land a language unspoken because unknown.
So it was a kind of love.
A first, that did not cling or demand more of me than what I could offer, took that, accepted my youth, my limitations, all our limitations…that alone is remarkable, was remarkable then but unremarked upon.
There was a key, there was a pet, there were things I could not have done that I did, some did not help but I needed to find who I was, then, there, that I would become? I was someone but I did not know who that was except to be. And being? The freedom to be — to be allowed to be — that was a breath of something I did not understand I understood.
So many things we did not mutually understand. The ‘thing’ that I did know I was was something unknown to them, all of them. They were grounded in being, in feet on the ground, on a material world that historically supported them in ways that continue to feed them, their country, their lives. They had a faith in commerce, in faith of sorts, in the fragility of life.
That there was a large thing which until decades passed I did not grasp, was ungraspable to the youth. The war was something I only knew from watching from afar. They, all theys, had experienced war directly. There was evidence of it everywhere and in retrospect, perhaps because it was so obvious to them, I should have or could have understood and seen the evidence but the translation was not done, unavailable to me.
A youth entitled, so much entitlement, embarrassed now too late too late to repair….sometimes I reflect on the ‘sanity’ of St. Francis and think that perhaps his delusion his youth is what drives us all at one time during our lives, the drive to repair for whatever we could not see to do or could not see how we did; what was imperious then and painful to know but acknowledge now.
There is something about the past that is also a cliché, for some it is difficult to accept and forgive who we were and what we did so long ago. For me it is easier to regret than forgive.
Someday I would like to forgive.
Ingrained from before this time, this membering, forgiveness is more foreign than any land and language and, tautly constrained, remains so. That was a lesson of the then there that was offered and accepted and it is only in retrospect that I know to feel regret and wonder. Others are able and I am bewondered that they do and can. Crippled I feel by this inability. There is so much to learn — still.
Like a young Harry we (royal) ate and drank slept on beds of flowers took love and space as though it were natural, deserved, it both was and was not. It was not, but it was freely offered, was it accepted with grace? I doubt it, yet never resented by Her.
There was a gang, group, mopeds, rougher, not really rough but rough in context of the many and they were interested in me but I couldn’t find a way to stay interested in them.
There was ‘art’ and blooming. I had so much time to bloom, watered by this house, this home away from, allowed to become or do the strange things I did/wished to do. I do not or no longer know all the things I did or even how I did them (secret things) but I did write, draw, build, and music’d because that is what I did, that is what I do. That is how I came to be who I am.