rejectomorph (flying_blind) wrote,


Something jogged my memory tonight. Jogged it way back to my early childhood, in fact. I think it was a breeze that was rattling the leaves of the mulberry tree, and the sight of the clouds through which the moon was sending a glow. Suddenly, an image popped into my mind, of an illustration in a book we had. The book was a reader, from the 1920s or 1930s, given to us by a doctor my Mother's family knew, and who had been on the board of education in Long Beach, California for many years. The particular illustration I thought of was one of those familiar drawings of the wind personified as a face in a cloud, blowing. I think there were several of them in that book, and I had probably seen them in other books as well, and in the cartoons that were shown at the Saturday matinees at our neighborhood theatre. But the image which came to my mind tonight was one from that reader, with a big cloud-face blowing up waves on a lake with a large steamship on it. This image triggered a cascade of other images from that book, and I quickly found myself remembering all sorts of things from that time. I began writing about them.

Soon, without intending to, I had another of those posts on my hands. Oh, shameless memory. It isn't enough that I am bogged down in the middle of some rambling story from later years; now, it stuffs another one into my head, this one dragged out from the mists even further back in my life. Well, this time, its going into deep storage. If I let memory have its way with me, I could end up lost in thoughts of crawling across the threadbare blue rug with the pattern of...hey! No! (You see how insidious it is?)

The observation has been made (don't ask me by whom- I'm on a roll, here) that children live in the present moment, the young in dreams of the future, and the old in memory. I suppose I could read my recent mental infestations of memories as a sign of impending senility, but the fact is that I have been subject to bouts of nostalgia since, at least, my late teen years. (Watch me skate onto this thin ice.) I remember (heh) spending most of my 19th year enduring periods of melancholy brought on by memories of times only recently past. In fact, this particular period of nostalgia was so deep that the memories on which I was then dwelling have completely displaced almost all other memories from the time itself. Nevertheless, I have often found myself pondering the few scraps of memory that I do retain from that era, and being pulled back into them. The whole thing gets just infuriatingly meta!

This long-established tendency of mine to go wandering in the lotus pond of the past is one of the reasons I try to write something about what is happening now every day. Since not much of what is happening now is of any great interest, I usually end up writing about the weather, or the deer, or the cats. The mundane is what keeps me grounded, so that I don't turn into some sort of temporally obsessed Narcissus, eternally gazing into the watery reflection of my past. Thus, I do suffer some trepidation when memory takes over my words for any length of time. It is very seductive. Hey. What is that? Sirens? Listen! They're playing my song!

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