|On We Go
||[May. 7th, 2017|07:22 pm]
Afternoon wasting away, all the spring green flourishing outside and me sitting here amid mere words, and those barely breaking the dry ground of my mind. It feels like willful ennui. The mundane tasks I might be doing do not appeal to me, and the day, however delightful to the birds and insects, does not engage me. I hear singing and buzzing, but they give me no clues. I smell the fragrance of grass and the pine trees as they drift through my open window, but they lack the power to invigorate me or my thoughts. |
The past, grown larger, has also grown distant, like an enormous sky that looks alien to the land. Though I try to find some purchase in its clouds, I merely float back down to the mundane earth. Perhaps I should be grateful that I do not plummet, though perhaps plummeting would wake me up. I am napping with eyes open, and today's landscape is the dream I can't quite grasp, and memory is the wakeful state to which I can't return. Suspended, I move words around in my head but fail to assemble them into a semblance of what I want them to mean.
Yes, very like willful ennui. Someone fling water on me, before I drown in utterly still air.
(i am accused of tending to the past)
by Lucille Clifton
i am accused of tending to the past
as if i made it
as if i sculpted it
with my own hands. i did not.
this past was waiting for me
when i came,
a monstrous unnamed baby,
and i with my mother's itch
took it to breast
and named it
she is more human now,
learning language everyday,
remembering faces, names, and dates.
when she is strong enough to travel
on her own, beware, she will.
For the past couple of years, I've been working on a memoir, which means I'm obliged daily to come face-to-face with all the dreary, and sometimes truly UGLY stuff I have in Lucille's words made, sculpted...with my own hands. For decades I gave myself a pass, a justification, a finely-crafted rationale, because after all in my childhood I got screwed, so by god I have the perfect right to screw THEM, directly or indirectly.
The only real fear I have is that, given the depth and breadth of my outrages over the decades, I won't live long enough to finish the damned thing. But then on the other hand, something tells me that won't be a problem. No early, premature reprieve for me!
Ah, yes, the outrages. They're like having your brain full of stinging nettles. I have quite an accumulation myself, though they are mostly sins of omission rather than commission, and most of them I perpetrated against myself. If I wrote a memoir it would be full of things I didn't do but should have. It would probably be pretty dull reading.