Monday, May 5, 2008

Naïve Melody

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The past and future exist in each moment. There is no such thing as time. It’s just a construct we have to help us deal with reality. I was like that then, I am like this now is more acceptable to say to people than I am large. I contain multitudes.


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There is nothing to get through. Whatever is there always will be, in various forms. There is only being in—Merrily, life is but a dream.


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Jobs are incidental, shells that surround the days. I dream about work at night. In the morning I feel like crying. The rest of the time, I'm fine.


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My uncle once said to me, Memoirs are just memories. What do we do with the things we forget? I’ve never been able to parse out if this is an evocative phrase or nonsense, something akin to a double negative.


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Do the things we forget somehow live on without us, independently? Perhaps they are what we mean when we say ghosts. Guilt. There are things we should remember, we know we should. We forget them.


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Perhaps this is purgatory. What a fate for an event or person's existence to become things that someone else is dimly aware they have forgotten.


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My uncle is a combat veteran and (from what I can gather) has seen more people killed than he can remember. He knows this. But that does not change the lives and deaths he once knew and has forgotten.


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Everything is contained in this world and within it there are levels of reality and our souls eternally move through various levels depending on the body we inhabit in a life time. I like that idea.


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My first memory is being taken for a ride on my father’s motorcycle, a Triumph. I was two, maybe three. We rode around our sizeable rural yard. It was raining. He had no front fender so the rain and mud sprayed up on our faces. He sat me in front of him and held me with his legs. He had a bracket that he mounted on the gas tank for me to hold onto. When we came back in the house he helped me take my wet shoes of and my mother removed my dirty clothes. Neither remembers any of this.

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