Posts Tagged ‘Memories’

Tumbling and Rumbling
Drinking and Laughing
Skin against Skin
Squeals of Delight
Laughter and
Soft secretive Kisses.

We surprise each other.

But time slips away
and steals me from you.
My situation cannot be avoided;
it’s last call and I must be aboard.

I’m surprised by you,
that the memory of you should be
so compelling.

Soon cold Reality will reclaim me.
But for now I insulate myself
with Memory.

of Laughter and Soft Lips
of Tumbling Dark Hair
of the Taste of Your Kiss
of your Smile
of a few Hours of our Time
Which continue to Haunt me.


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I don’t believe in true love. I have loved too many, too strongly to believe in such storybook perfection. Love is pain, as I have come to discover; it is letting go and forgiving, never about forgetting. You never forget. It’s a burning ember in the middle of my chest that can flame to life at the slightest provocation; a movie, a song, a sunset can set it off, bring that twinge to my heart. The choking drowning feeling, the pain of passion burning me up. It’s tears and laughter, joy pain and sorrow all rolled together. Everyone wants it, everyone deserves it at least once; the masochistic fucks.
Sometimes I feel so strongly I can do nothing. I am floored by the simplest of things; sometimes nothing at all. Then I can do nothing but agonize in half-memory and boiling roiling-emotion, buried regret and agonized longing.
It comes from deep wells, buried memories, buried faces and names, places and times that live only in past imaginings. Sometimes I have to laugh or cry out loud. It bubbles out, rushes out from those deep places and demands release. Violence overcomes me, cripples me; the triggered memory, the forgotten place-time rides me, thrashes me and I cry out in the pain of remembering.
The pain of remembering, remembering of ones I’ve loved, of love; the remembering of love.

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This song, this is what I was listening for and I didn’t even know it. The soft refrain brings nostalgia. A memory of a purchase, this album and a book to accompany it.
I remember the feeling of that day; the quiet waiting of my soul as I turned each page of my new book; my mind totally in awe, in admiration of the author.  My soul and feet happily tapping along with the smooth, jazzy croon of my stereo.
That song comes on tonight, picked at random by my magic box. Immediately I’m back there, back to that first time. I smile to myself, go to my bookcase and pull that book from it’s place on my shelf. I may or may not read it, I just want to have it near me as the album rolls on.
They own me tonight, these two beautiful women. This is a special relationship, this ménage-à-trois of book, song and me. It is nearly foolproof. There is no jealousy, we accord each other the perfect amount of respect. They both understand they own an equal portion of my heart and mind and that even if I neglect either of them for extended periods, I will always return. And always they will be there, waiting for me.

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One of his most vivid memories is of him and his half-brothers finding a dead deer and poking it’s eye with a stick until it popped.
“It was green…” He remembers.

All of his brothers are Half-brothers. His life is full of half remembered instances, stop stills of an unfinished film. Being dropped off with a grumpy old women and two or three of her other charges, her dirt lawn and harsh voice, the laughter of the other children. Being kicked out of elementary school because his best friend pissed on the door of a rival school.
“He had to go, he thought it would be funny. I don’t know why they kicked me out…”
He describes his school life as quiet and boring, he had friends but they weren’t close. He fell out of touch all together with the friend who just had to piss after he had moved to a different school 4 miles away. The first time he heard of his parents divorce,
“I was playing outside the house, no-one else was home and these two strange men came up the walk and took me away with them…”
Weekends with Dad and his four half-brothers, weekends with Mom and his two half-brothers.

He had a girlfriend at the end of high-school, he broke up with her. “why’d you beak up with her?” I ask him, never really expecting an answer.
“She was… (he nods his head as if confirming long held suspicions) … a bitch.”
Everything he says is slow like this, as though each word has to be turned one way then another, carefully inspected to be sure it is the right one. “Bitch” must have been the perfect description in his mind. During ‘lengthy’ speeches of say eight or more words, to include several sentences, he clears his throat often, as if to be sure we understand how much effort is required from him to talk. He doesn’t seem particularly unsure of what he is saying, nor insecure with saying it, just unsure he would like to speak at all. As if by letting these few stories leave his mouth they might leave him. They would no longer be his own life, his own private joke.

He moved out at the end of high-school, he and his girlfriend moved into a house together. It was cheap for them, his grandfather owned the place and charged a minimal amount, yet large enough to teach his grandson the economics of living. Soon after a friend of his from high-school moved in with them. The girlfriend and the friend did not get along.
“Why didn’t they get on?”
“He hated her… (shrugs) She was a bitch”
During these few years nothing much happened; he worked at warehouse, hung out with his half-brothers and his friend, his girlfriend became increasingly unhappy and he became dissatisfied with her. Their breakup was as placid and boring as their relationship. That was the only story he had to relate to me from this time in his life, the ‘breakup story’. They were at a grocery store getting necessities for the super-bowl party they were to attend at his half-brothers place. The argument was over the party, she didn’t want go. She wanted him to stay with her at home, he wanted to drop her off and go the party without her.
“…So she said ‘You just don’t want to be with me!’ and I told her she was right. The next day she moved all her stuff to the room next to mine.”
“She didn’t move out that night?”
“No, she stayed with me that night and when I came back the next night she had moved out.”
A month and a half latter he joined the Navy.

He has never lived what he would consider an interesting life. Every sentence ends with an ellipsis, every story he tells, the few I can get him to tell, is told with the same monotone. Still he is a happy and contented person. The kind of person for whom the most amazing thing he has ever seen has only elicited a small grunt of  appreciation. He is an interesting person though, if only because he is so quiet, so non-committal about life. Because of this, because he has so few stories to tell, the ones he does tell leave the listener wanting more, leave the hearer strangely effected, moved. You can feel the impact to his life that each event has had through the few words he lets grudgingly drop. These are the things that stick out the most in a life that is otherwise tapioca blandness. A few defining moments of childhood, confrontations of adolescents and decisions of adulthood. And when you think about it, that’s all any of us have. Sure we might have more to say, might even make some of it up, but when you strip it down, its just a bunch of bright spots in the film of our lives. The most defining moments of a man don’t have to be worthy of a novel, most would not even get a novella. Often the most defining thing about us will barely merit a sentence yet will carry all the force of a Pulitzer prize winner.

“It was green…”

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Any good memories, memories of happiness, I have or have had I systematically dismantle so that I may live in the present with nothing to distract me. And my memories become fantasy, dreams, unreality in which I dance with rag dolls, tattered and worn, whose faces had been (I had) painted on with a child’s whimsy.

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