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Two Kinds Of Memory
| Open Poetry #41 |
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Two Kinds Of Memory |
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Mistletoe Angel 
since 2000-12-17
Posts 32816Portland, Oregon |
(Sorry for my inactivity as of late, as I have been feeling very emotional as of late as I've been coping with a quarterlife crisis of sorts. This is a gently melancholic write I wrote today, thinking about my grandparents ever so often now and them seeming to exhibit preliminary signs of Alzheimer's, which has left me feeling blue, and is inspired in part by John Crowley's short story "Snow".  )*  Two Kinds Of Memory By: Noah Eaton 10/28/07 . . . . . As I have grown older, I’ve found my memories spill over, and we alone don’t have the ability, to arrange each passing hour in chronological order, know when we’ve come back to the start… …preservation is a deceiving notion, all we have can only be viewed at the resolution, our own eyes allotted to record these memories, like the swirl of snowflakes in a glass paperweight, that shows a cottage being snowed on. Funny how time sometimes, takes an unconscionable time, and the price of each reminiscing, is the memory of the tears that it brings, and the harder you try to remember, any particular still frame, the definition of the still frame gets fuzzier, and increasingly discolored each and every time… . . . …his snow-white hair is glowing, on Christmas Eve as it’s snowing, but inside his head it’s gauzier, than the silvered icy streets of Fifth Avenue, in the Big Apple after a Christmas Day church service… like with Hollywood nitrate films, being preserved in humidity, and temperature-controlled vaults, as to decelerate their rate of decomposition, the flavors, the sounds, the tones, the visuals, the scents, of his memories in his mind only alter endlessly. Funny how we find ourselves, shuffling through that database of memories, like a deck of cards, and somehow the impression, they make on us, never seems to be the same, and we try endlessly to restore those visuals, like Hollywood restores these decomposing films… . . . . . . . . . …I cried myself to sleep that evening, trying to find some meaning, surrendering to a flavorless spring. fragrant with almond blossoms and potpourri, he had shared with me… …an angel spoke to me in my desperation, chanting “Time is a dressmaker specializing in alterations”, but there are memories that can’t be carried, that only feel more real, every time you stumble upon them, as the physics of time do their part… …conjured through the scent of juniper, on a rainy day, hearing a song of sentimental value, or the sight of snow angels on a frosty lawn… . . . Funny how fiction can manipulate, the concept of time, and how seeing it being suspended in slow-motion, or dart by in fast-forward, turn inside-out or bend over backwards, move vertically rather than horizontally, can help us contemplate why time in reality, traverses and operates as it does. Funny how there’s an optimistic paradox, that as we age, time tends to ripen in some ways, like the first flush, of an herbal tea harvest, that there are some memories, that we can never keep, which re-visit us, where the dressmaker of time’s dress softly sweeps… . . . . . . . . …I can only begin to imagine what condition, the still frames of each memory, stored in the corners, of his fertile mind are in… . . . …when you stare outside your window, is it me you see, standing in the middle, of that field catching fireflies, even when I’m not around… . . . …do you recognize me when you’re dreaming, is my voice the sound of the prairie breathing, or the sound of all twenty-four, major and minor chords heaving… . . . . . . . . . .  "If we have no peace, it is because we have forgotten that we belong to each other" Mother Teresa |
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| © Copyright 2007 Nadia Lockheart - All Rights Reserved | |||
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Margherita Member Seraphic
since 2003-02-08
Posts 22236Eternity |
…when you stare outside your window, is it me you see, standing in the middle, of that field catching fireflies, even when I’m not around… . . . …do you recognize me when you’re dreaming, is my voice the sound of the prairie breathing, or the sound of all twenty-four, major and minor chords heaving… . Sweet and beautiful, sensitive Noah, you have me in tears with this extremely poignant poem, written with your heart. The pictures you add are equally heartwrenching, yet also they speak of love and caring souls. The loss of memory is something hard to face, the loss of the mind is nearly unbearable. Your are in full bloom, yet you are aware of what happens when age becomes a burden. What comforts me is the thought of our soul who remains untouched and as clear and brilliant as a diamond through all of this and in the moment of transition hopefully everything will clear up again ... we are like leaves carried by the wind ... may the wind be moved by divine hands! I trust. Thank you sweet friend for this. You have done well to write it, so you can more easily overcome the "crisis" you feel you are having. May your Youth experience all the joy present in this world! Love and hugs. Margherita  |
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Earth Angel Member Empyrean
since 2002-08-27
Posts 40215Realms of Light |
Noah, dearest Angel Man ~ friend ~ and POET, I was 'aflushed' with emotion as I read this exceptionally moving spill from your soul heart. In fact, I am still awash in emotion as I am keying this rather inadequate reply. I literally could quote each line as my favourite, and surely my saving this outstanding, compassionate write, illustrates that this be true.  I have written poems on this dreadful disease and have read several written by others as well. However, this poem stands out all on its own. I also know that this time in your life has been difficult, but you have overcome times such as these in the past ~ and you will get through your "quarterlife crisis" as well. Know that you are loved and that you are special.  Love & healing hugs, Linda  |
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JamesMichael Member Empyrean
since 1999-11-16
Posts 33336Kapolei, Hawaii, USA |
Nice writing Noah...the closer we get to death, the closer we get to the souls release...first we experience the joys and the carefreeness of childhood, then we partake of the many journeys where are choices and desires take us, and after we have experienced all the wonderful and sometimes sad experiences upon this earth, finally the season of death and the release of our soul...I believe in eternal life...John 3:16...James |
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