amonkie

Alright, here we go!

This week: Write about a strong memory you have. It can be the memory itself, how it makes you feel, what triggers the memory, how you feel as you remember, anything.


Side note: I will be out of town this week and away from internet access, so while I won't be here to cheer you on, support each other! It's amazing to watch people grow each week, as you stay with it or join for the first time. As always, IF YOU HAVE IDEAS, PM me!

__________________
Calling from deep in the heart, from where the eyes can't see and the ears can't hear, from where the mountain trails end and only love can go... ~~~ Three Rivers Hare Krishna

tecoyah

Sweet vapors of newborn film
Covered as she is, but naked
Sterile slime of lifes cocoon
Slide into my trembling, waiting hands
Who could know the joy
Distractions of metal begone
Just us two as witness
Soon to be three,so soon
No cry breaks the hypnosis
Only warmth of mothers blood
And perfection cupped in daddys hand
I wish to name her Bliss

__________________
Holding onto anger is like grasping a hot coal with the intent of throwing it at someone else; you are the one who gets burned. - Buddha

high_way

damn this may be a hard one. i dont have many memories (my child hood is a blur... and not its not from drugs either). ill see how i do though.

tecoyah i like what you have done. is it about the birth of your daughter?

__________________
A stranger is just a friend you havent met yet.

Impostor of the imposturous

tecoyah

Yes....unassisted homebirth. Best memory I will ever have.

__________________
Holding onto anger is like grasping a hot coal with the intent of throwing it at someone else; you are the one who gets burned. - Buddha

thinktank

-------------------------

Hain

This is a memory of a dream I had :is cheating, I know:.

'Hardly believe that it’s the end of the world

We are in a house of glass—all glass—with odd metal support in the walls, but still mainly transparent. The sun beats through it strangely illuminated all objects as a mirage. The glass walls watch us from their illusions. The carpet under our feet is a dusty brown, but it is not part of my field of vision. We both sit on the couch, the only object in the room, which like the carpet is the same dusty brown. I sit next to her on the couch staring out through the glass house. As I stare in between her and the forest outside, I still can feel the elements around me. Outside there is a forest of pure green, there are no tree trunks, only green leaves surrounding the house. The sky above is a fake ocean blue, and like the rest of the world, a mirage. All details are secondary to her. ‘Hardly believe that it’s the end of the world.

Her long length blonde hair is to her back as I see when she leans forward. I watch her movements like I do in real life, to inhale every detail from her to remain a perfect memory. Her brown eyes stare outward through the glass. A slight aroma fills my nose and I look closer. I don’t want to leave this Earth because I don’t want the next. It is her perfume, something that I am not an expert on but I know that I like hers. I can feel the aroma around me and get other strange sensations that can only be felt in a dream and understood in a dream—things that can never be felt in real life: all new senses appear to border in my mind. I cannot explain or begin to remember other than colors took on forms inside me. A red pink glaze fills my body as I sat closer.

She looks at me to speak without her voice. She smiles and looks with her big loving eyes. It is impossible not to smile back. I feel the impressions of her mind and it speaks a thought to me, “Looking?” as in, “Why do you look at me?” I hear her goddess voice in my head and can respond the same way. I look into her deep brown eyes and can see all her thoughts, all her memories, all her dreams, all her fears, all her loves, all at once, and she can too with mine. I close my eyes and softly whisper at the top of my mind.

“This is the body you hide? Are you crazy?” I move closer to her to feel her presence in my dream. I smell her perfume, I touch her hair and it brushes against my arm, I love her as she is. I realize this is a dream and it crushes me. I act though that it is real life still, because I know nothing of what can happen in the morning. I kiss her shoulder and lay my head upon it. She tenderly holds my hand, I gently massage my fingers with hers. I shed a tear, a cold but fiery tear that has come from my mind. It takes away all the fear, all the exaggerations, all the lies, all the pain inside us away. The entire world looks at us: the glass, the trees, the floor, the couch, all is alive and watches us. And I say, “I’m gonna miss you.” I look back up and stare into her eyes and watch her smile because it may be the last one I will ever see.

tecoyah

Grampa Ernie wasn't old
Stroke took from him, me
The youth he had hidden
Would not share
Lifeless legs seem cold
And cousin Joe he sees
In everyone that visits
We do not care
I know of him just what I'm told
Compared to what I see
Inside an unreachable mind
If any is there
Grampa Ernie wasn't old
When he died
But Father finally left his mold
For on that day he cried

__________________
Holding onto anger is like grasping a hot coal with the intent of throwing it at someone else; you are the one who gets burned. - Buddha

ngdawg

Ten years and it had come down to this moment. It would be my next to last chance, I was told. Then I would have to be released to find another way to achieve the dream I had for so long.
Needles injected drugs and took blood for months. My arms looked like that of a junkie, my hips and stomach were bruised and lumpy. These routines were just routine and my hopes were the same as every time before-high but knowing deep down this may not be the time.
The day came and I was wheeled into a cold, green stark room. People swathed in the same drab green with squares of creased cloth covering their faces greeted me with cheer. I felt no cheer and began to cry uncontrollably. The doctor wondered aloud and I had no real answer. Scared, I guess. He had been with me for half of this journey-he knew me literally inside and out. He became a friend of sorts, taking time to talk, to joke, much to the chagrine of those waiting with the same hopes I had. I even made a promise-if this works, I'd smother him with pounds of his favorite cookies.
We talk some more; he makes a joke about my glasses being on my face still-what was I hoping to see? As we talk, I feel the cloud of unconsciousness start to take hold and, knowing that was done on the sly, turned blurrily to the man I had put my faith in and uttered, "You son of a bitch". Lights out.
Two weeks pass. It's July 4th, a Saturday and it's going to be a busy day. I don't feel well and tell my mate to go to the store-it didn't work. I had blood tests that morning, but I wouldn't know the results until Monday, but my heart knew. Another chance gone. My spouse, my friends would have none of this talk. At their urging I buy an EPT, a total waste of money in my mind. But the color the package said a positive would be showed quicker than the time allotted. Had my ceilings been a foot lower, I may well have crashed through them in joyful leaps. But I still had to wait for Monday.
We spend Sunday at a sister's and everyone is there. My youngest sister comes to my side and whispers "you're pregnant, aren't you?" Tell no one, I tell her, but yes. She just knew it the minute I walked in.
That night, a frantic message is on my machine. My case nurse. So excited was she that her already high-pitched English accent was operatic now. But all she is saying is, "call me immediately", repeatedly with a list of phone numbers. I know, Mary. I already know.
Monday morning brings me back to where the journey started and I am surrounded by well-wishers before I am even seen by anyone. Mary comes bounding out, hugging me and taking me into a backroom as if I were a rockstar being mobbed. The man who held my future in his hands comes in while more blood is being taken, hugs me, congratulates me, gives me a bit of information that makes it clear why I was so popular. The levels they look for were, in me, 10 times the normal range. There wasn't just one child. We discussed it a bit and I left to make a LOT of calls.
My last day there was in a dark room with a technician, Mary, another nurse and my husband. Crowded, but no one wanted to miss this. There's one heartbeat, a fluttering dot on the monitor. The technician hunts with her magic wand a bit longer. Two fluttering dots. Everyone cheers, cries, laughs. We say our goodbyes, and I can't say thank you enough.
Forty five weeks later, I paid a visit with their sweet new creations,and carrying a large bag full of boxes of Chips Ahoy cookies in my arm.

thinktank

I'm digging it Tecoyah. Good stuff. I couldnt get on the last couple subjects, the pen was dry, but I've been reading the work from the rest of you. Color Tank impressed, and keep it coming cats!

tecoyah

OMG....I truly love this woman

__________________
Holding onto anger is like grasping a hot coal with the intent of throwing it at someone else; you are the one who gets burned. - Buddha

amonkie

On those rare cold days
When sandals just won't do
I pull out the sneakers
now half covered in blue

and it carries me back
to that one regular day
First flight of freedom
old tunes I hear play

Set out with some pails
of white and light blue
A ladder leaning up
We've much to do

And yet it's not all work
as I fondly recall
the brush "missed" the house
and on my hair, paint falls

Later we stand laughing
at ourselves in the mirror
the flash of a camera
on my shoulder, a shimmer

We said it was a little fairy
joining in on our fun
blue still in my hair days later
my favorite day under the sun

__________________
Calling from deep in the heart, from where the eyes can't see and the ears can't hear, from where the mountain trails end and only love can go... ~~~ Three Rivers Hare Krishna

Bryndian_Dhai

The metallic buzz fills the room and I brace myself for the touch of the needle on my waiting flesh. A deep breath in and out, and I feel his touch on my back, framing the exact spot. I tense further, then force myself to relax before he can say anything. I can sense his smile and the moment of connection makes me relax completely. So completely that I have to fight the urge to jump when the needle touches my skin, impaling ink into the canvas of my back at more than a thousand pulses a minute. The smell of tattoo ink fills my nose and I am glad to notice that I haven’t held my breath against the pain.

My artist picks the needle from my skin to refresh the ink and I flex my shoulders carefully. The sting fades very quickly, a mixed blessing, and only too soon I must brace myself for the renewed sting of the needle on my skin. As the long process of inking a new tattoo begins, I start to doze in spite of the pain, a habit that surprises me every time I get a new piece. This time, my mind is guided by the smell of antiseptic and the droning buzz of the tattoo gun and I find myself reviewing the night that marked the beginning of my journey to this moment, to this tattoo.

Oddly enough, I don’t remember much of that night. I dream of it sometimes, strange disjointed visions reminiscent of soap opera flashbacks, and from that I’ve pieced together most of the details. My lashes part gummily as I struggle to open my eyes, and I blink at the glare of the overhead spotlight. I try to turn my head in confusion, not recognizing my surroundings. A strange face swims into view and I strain to focus. I hear a low, strangled moan and realize, as pain washes over me, that I’m the one moaning. I close my eyes again and that’s the last thing I remember until I awaken in a strange room, sunlight streaming into my eyes. A slow, fuzzy inspection of the room I’m in reveals it to be a hospital room, complete with wall mounted television and iv needle in my arm.

I must have dozed again, because the next thing I remember is being awakened by a nurse in brightly patterned scrubs. She did whatever it is that nurses do and left the room, returning fairly shortly with a doctor. He explained that I had been admitted to the hospital via the emergency room, where I had been treated for an overdose. Fearing reprisal, my ride to the hospital had not stayed, and the doctors were forced to treat me without knowing the drugs I’d taken. The list was short and familiar, though repetitive. I’d awakened the previous day, probably around noon, and done my usual hit of crystal meth. About midafternoon, I’d bumped again, then popped a valium to take a nap. I got up around nine pm, and did a hit of crystal to wake up, then got dressed and left. I bumped on the way to the club, and then again after my first drink. I ran out sometime around midnight, and bummed a hit from an acquaintance. I only remember bumming the hit because my friend smelled like lemons and we laughed about it while we did the hit. Things sort of got blurry after that. We decided to hit an after hours club, and I bumped again on the way. I remember doing a hit of ecstasy after we got there, and that’s the last thing I remembered before I woke up in the hospital.

Before being released from the hospital, my doctors made it painfully clear that I’d nearly died from the drugs I’d done. This wasn’t my first visit to the hospital thanks to my drug use, but it was the most serious. I found that I did not like the idea of death. Sounds simplistic and overly dramatic, but that’s exactly what turned the tide. It took several years and lots of tries, but I finally kicked the drugs for good in October 1994.

I was abruptly shocked from my walk down memory lane by a particularly painful dig of the needle in my flesh. I was unable to suppress the screech and curse and I heard my artist chuckle behind me. “I thought you were asleep,” he said. I grinned and turned my head to look at him over my shoulder. “Nope, just thinking. I forget what a light touch you’ve got.” I laughed and settled my head on my arms again, “Or I did until just then.” He laughed again and got back to work. The last hour and a half of my tattoo was too painful to sleep or doze or even think about anything except remembering to breathe.

Finally, just when I thought he was never going to finish he sprayed my back with the wonderful, cooling antiseptic spray and wiped it a final time. “Go look at it, before I coat it,” he said, pushing away from the chair upon which I was straddled. I got up and moved to the three-way mirror, turning to gaze for the first time on my new phoenix tattoo. She rose in glorious, flaming color on my back, rising from the ashes just like I had risen from the ashes of my own life ten years previous. I felt drained, emotionally and physically. The pain from the tattoo needle was a fitting tribute to the ten years of pain and struggle to beat the addiction that nearly killed me.

__________________
“When facism comes to America it will be wrapped in the flag and carrying a cross.”
~Sinclair Lewis

mrsandman

I was a five-year veteran firefighter on a major city fire department with plenty of experience with inner city fires. This particular incident was just a routine mattress fire. It was simply an old smoldering mattress in an abandoned apartment building. Most likely, some junkies had started the fire.

Our engine company was dispatched to the scene and me and another firefighter quickly determined to just carry the mattress out the back door instead of dragging a line in and hosing it down in the apartment. I picked up the front end of the mattress and my partner picked up the rear as we headed towards the back porch to dump it in the back yard.

This particular back porch was wooden and was about 4 feet by four feet. To get downstairs, you turned right and headed down the wide wooden stairs. The porch and stairs were outside of the building, and below those wooden stairs, was a set of cement stairs that led to the basement. From the top of the wooden porch to the bottom of the cement stairs was about 30 feet.


Carrying the front of the mattress, I intended to just turn right and walk down the stairs and dump the mattress in the back yard. We didn’t have any protective gear on as there appeared to be no need for it.

As I passed through the doorway onto the small wooden porch, I decided, at the last second to just toss the mattress over the railing straight ahead and not turn right onto the stairway. As I started to lift the mattress over the railing to heave it over, I stepped with my right foot onto the top wooden step. Immediately, the entire wooden staircase collapsed with a deafening roar, into the cement stairwell of the basement. I fell to the left onto the porch deck. As I peered cautiously over the edge of the still standing porch, which was independently supported by four, 4” x 4” vertical beams, I saw the tangled mass of splintered steps piled up in the basement stairwell. Had chance not intervened, I would have been entangled in that deadly pile of debris.

The sound of that collapsing staircase still echoes in my mind today. The very idea that I easily could have wound up under that woodpile made a lasting impression on me. I think that it was mostly due to the fact that we faced danger all the time, but this seemed so routine and harmless. I knew that I would have been badly hurt or killed and I’ve never forgotten that seemingly innocuous incident. A memory etched by fate.

__________________
Hail to ALL the troops and shadow warriors.

high_way

The Voice

The phone rings
The voice on the other end asks how I am
I can tell something is wrong before the voice starts to speak
I ask if I can call the voice back
I feel anxious and cannot concentrate
The feeling of dread builds in me
I call the voice back barely able to speak
The voice asks if im sitting down
I say not but should I, my legs crumbling under me
I ask whats happened now barely able to speak
The voice said hes dead, he hung himself, but doesn’t know why
I say goodbye, not sure how to feel
‘Hes dead, he hung himself,’ keeps resonating through my head

MARVIN DRAKE 2005

__________________
A stranger is just a friend you havent met yet.

Impostor of the imposturous

ngdawg

I was drawn to her face
The enigmatic smile
The smoothness of skin
Framed by tufts of bright red hair
I had to have her
In a room full of beauty she shone with her own light
And try as I may, as I wandered about
I was drawn back to her time after time
I moved closer to see her, to gaze at her face
She was not perfect, which made me want her more
My heart was now filled with an overwhelming desire to possess her
I looked around the room, then took her into my arms and whispered
You are mine now


Cost me $35, down from $45....
Her fingers were broken off

mojodragon

ngdawg, I'm almost hesitant to ask, but what was she?

<<---Wants more!

ngdawg

A porcelain doll

mojodragon

I wasn't sure why I had left the comfort of my bed. Was I insane? The road passed under my feet in a steady stream. Step after step, I consumed the darkness in front of me.

I pulled the lukewarm air into my lungs, and then exhaled very slowly, never breaking my pace. The wind was nice, not too warm and not too cold. Usually it was too warm, as this was South Carolina. But tonight, as it was Fall, I was relishing in the nice, even temperature.

I realized as I was running that the air should be drowning me. This was SC, after all. The humidity that night was hovering around 90%, which was pretty normal. Eighteen years of growing up in this hell hole had prepared me for this moment, this night, this very run.

I thought about my bed, and the comfort that it held for me. My wife was snuggling up to an indention in the mattress right about now, being comforted by the scent I had left behind on the sheets, the body heat I had left in my empty space. It wouldn't last long, and she would awaken scared and confused. That didn't matter, though. All that mattered was picking up that foot and putting it in front of the other one. Just to that tree, and then I'll stop. Ok, I'm at the tree, now I'm just going to run to that parked car. I'm at the car, now what? Just keep running, make it to the next block at least.

It's funny how different a city is at midnight on a weekday. Pulsing with life at high noon, and absolutely dead Monday night. This wouldn't have been possible on a Saturday night. I would have gotten picked up for public drunkeness, even though I hadn't had a drink at all. Kinda crazy, just running at midnight. In jeans and a t-shirt, too. No reflective clothing, no obvious work-out clothes.

My life had prepared me for this run. How did I know? Because I was doing it. I was eating up the distance, without a purpose. And yet, there was a divine pull. I couldn't stop running. I was compelled to just keep pushing my feet in front of me, to strive for that next goal.

At one point, a police car pulled along side of me. I was alone on an empty street, running for no apparent reason at all. "Are you ok?"

"Yes, I'm fine, huff, huff. Just running." Good thing my speech wasn't slurred, and that I was wearing all of my clothing. I might have gotten a free ride to the station.

I feared for my life at one point during my run. It wasn't rational, and it didn't happen where you'd expect it to. I ran across a very high bridge, with very little to protect me from the oncoming traffic. But that didn't scare me. What scared me was this one little bridge, that didn't have any traffic at all. It was going over another street, and I was afraid of gang activity. In my head, a group of crips came out onto the bridge while I was in the middle of it, blocking my way. I tried to turn around, and there was a group of bloods. Your veritable rock-and-a-hard-place. I watch too many movies.

I finally get across the river, and for the first time I realized how far I had run. I had run completely out of the city limits. I was now in the neighboring city, technically. Also, I realized that I was tired. I went into the nearest gas station, and called my loving, beautiful wife.

"Dear, can you come pick me up?" I said sheepishly.

"Honey, where are you? We've been worried sick!" We, meaning she and Andrea.

"I'm at this gas station, on the other side of the Gervais Street Bridge. I'm sorry, I just really felt like running. I needed time to clear my head." I was sorry, too. Sorry for worrying her. I wasn't sorry for the run, though. I needed it.

mojodragon

Cool! I loved the way you made it seem like a person. And in some way, she is! Have you been able to get her fixed?

la petite moi

he wanted her
so obviously,
and so quickly
she let down her guard.
he sheltered her
but paid a fee
she did
when left alone with him.

why stop at dreams
when reality is but
imaginary?
why not hold out arms
to horizons far away in
neverland?
why should anyone cry
at death, erotic with
tears?
why turn away
from me and my hand?

feel the sky falling,
crying its tears.
miles full of promises,
hopes, wants, and fears.

ngdawg

I don't want to...she's beautiful the way she is and can't really see her deformity unless you look for it.

Strange Famous

My memories of childhood are often tied to geography, to physical space. All of my most vivid memories come from the summer, and when I was alone. The boy that I was, the man that I am, querulous and unhappy, uncertain and compromised - is tied to the same landscape. This empty garden, with the long wet grass brushing my ankles and soaking my shoes; this stretch of road, between the off license and the house, or between Norwich Road and Bramford Lane. The paths I have walked, I have rarely walked hand in hand. The garden was split into two, the first half lawn, and my sister's slide, thick laurel hedge on either side until they cut it back too far and it never recovered. The shed, the anderson shelter, the old fire safe from the co-operative which was stuffed full of garden tools. The little porch, and the ugly green wellington boots in a disorderly line. The half cracked up coal bunker... half full of coal, even when the chimney got blocked up and plastered over. To the right the mad old woman who used to take in stray cats and ride an electric wheelchair which she didnt need. To the right, the strange guy with the half hearted beard, who let the swimming pool scu, over with shit and filth and filled his whole land with broken white electric goods and dead cars.

And then the waist high dark wood fence, that kept the lawn and the washing line and all of this apart from pond and the dirst behind. There used to be a consevatory, but they tore it down. There were apple tree's, two big ones in front of the pond, and 7 or 8 smaller ones on the top lawn next to the sandpit. One by one they were torn down, the big tree behind behind where the fruit cage used to be, just in front of the back lawn, which came down in the storms of 89 was the last to go. I used to be fascinated by the wasp traps... old sweet jars half covered in plastic and filled with vinegar, and then full of dead insects.

Passed the fence was the pond, about 10 foot by 5, the water was too dark to see the fish sometimes and in winter it froze... I would use a cricket stump to break the ice. Next to the pond is where the greenhouse used to stand, but it went a long time ago, broken glass that wasnt replaced... he used to grow tomato's and cucumbers, but they were never succesful.

Behiond this was two strips of soil, split by a concrete path. To the left they used to grow vegtables... broad beans, runners, pea's, carrots and potato's, but now only the rhubarb was left. To the right was where the fruit cage used to stand... sometimes they paid me £3 an hour to dig over all the weeds, but they never grew anything else there... behind that the bare path of dirt where we used to have the bonfire's, behind that the last big apple tree and the back lawn, the brick wall I used to play soccer with myself against, to the right the sandpit and then the compost heap. Everything pointed to deconstruction and decay, I felt more at home the more wild it became, the less there was around me that meant anything. In the summer you could hear the motorcycle speedway from the Foxhall track, to the left and back were woods, standing on the wall of the sandpit I could se the main part of a row a giant poplars that were filled with crows in the evening, to the left and back - a few more houses and then heathland, behind that a silver birch wood that ran a couple of miles into Bucklesham Road and the golf course there... but I never ventured out of the garden much when I was younger. A soccer goal where I used to play with friends sometimes, and more often against myself. I used to play cricket against the anderson shelter until the wooden door was battered and shattered, inside it was filled with my sister's toys and old carpet. This is a place, a geography, a part of me seems to belong there... I cant tell exactly how unhappy I was looking back, I place my feelings now over myself then, superimposed. Looking bad, it seems lonely, monochrome and sad.

__________________
"Do not tell lies, and do not do what you hate,
for all things are plain in the sight of Heaven. For nothing
hidden will not become manifest, and nothing covered will remain
without being uncovered."

The Gospel of Thomas

neonscreamer

this one is from my personal collection...you folks are the first to read it...


7:39


When you can't sleep,
everything is blurred.
A dream, in a dream.
Detached from reality.

It's like watching a movie.
But the movie is right there.
Nothing seems real.
Everything looks blue-ish.

Your eyes water,
and don't stop.
They burn like you just rubbed
Salt in them.

Every sound seems muffled,
and everything has the volume
Turned down.
It's like the world is on mute.

Every feeling is different.
After a few days,
sleep isn't required.
It would be nice,
but you don't have to
If you don't want to.

You stay thirsty,
Your throat is always dry.
Sandpaper would feel wet
Compared to this.

I haven't slept in a week.
It's hard to believe.
My personal record so far
Is 18 days straight.

I had to be hospitalized
After that one.
It's wasn't fun,
but I couldn't sleep.

I don't know why I can't sleep now.
I guess I do, but I don't want to admit it.
D caused this, in a way.
In another way, I caused this.

Sleep is a welcomed state,
A temporary death.
This doesn't feel like life,
Although I don't know what does.

I'll sleep eventually,
When I get tired enough.
Technically that won't be sleep,
It'll be passing out.

There's a difference.
I know that,
But it doesn't matter.
Rest is rest.

__________________
This space available for rent. Reasonable rates!

roachboy

say we are walking through an interior
you and i
as we round a corner
there is the smell of ivory soap
where none is expected.

that often means that
you continue walking through the soap traces into one room
as i walk into my grandmother's kitchen
which i see from the viewpoint of my 5-year old self

i land in the same place every time
i can see the red and chrome shelves at the end of a counter
three shelves wth rounded edges
on the middle one a large radio with a circular dial

i am to the left of the dial

the floor is white linoleum with black streaks, maybe marbled

there is an island
the sink is at one end of it
i need to climb a footstool to reach it

i can see out the back window
the driveway, the garage, lilac bushes to either side of the garage
(i know they extend up the driveway on the side opposite the house)
the back yard that wraps around the garage
the back section where there is a brick fireplace
for some reason
marooned in the middle of a lawn

to the left, out this window
seen from atop a rickety metal footstool
is the far end of the liquor store
my granfather owned
the office in the back
the ship in a bottle that i could not figure out
an advertisement for cutty sark
the shortwave radio i would listen to for hours
to ship-to-shore radio
and beacons
it is black and has a rectangular piece attached to the top
that pivots
with two almost transparent piece of plastic
one at either end
that i thought you needed to look across
to aim the radio
and improve reception

as i sit here holding the sequence of memory in place
the sequence grows denser
there are no particular stories
just images

i heard my mother play piano one time only
and something about they way it made me feel
prompted me to hide in the stairway in the front of the house
i remember pushing my face against the white railings
and looking into the livingroom
at her back as she played
i cant remember much about what she was playing
it does not matter
except that her left hand was moving back and forth
tonic chord fifth chord probably

i remember looking down into the hallway from that spot
in other directions
at arrangements to either side of the livingroom
at the front door (left),
at some kind of reception area (the whole),
a table with a black dial telephone on it (right)
already quite old
heavy black plastic
the phone number was Walker 6 something something something.
it was written on a white circle
in the center of the dialer
WA6-9234 (is that right?)

i remember watching the televised aspects of the kennedy assasination in that living room.

the green stuffed chair opposite
an enormous television
my grandfather asleep in the chair
snoring
after dinner
next to him asleep a table
on which there is a portrait of his younger self

i have been walking a circle around the ground floor of that house
there is continuity in the space but not in time
so my viewpoint keeps shifting up and down as i move laterally across it

back into the kitchen
a series of windows through which you can see the lilac bushes that line the far edge of the driveway
which slopes down form the main road
bridge street beverly massachusetts sometime in the early-to-mid 1960s
these have to be from that period
because there is a sense of my grandmother being there

the house is warm

she died in 1967
i can almost see her
her hair in a kind of bouffant
her voice a kind of french lilt
but i cannot see her face
not any more
i have photographs somewhere
and i think i substitute the face from the photographs
at those points when
for some reason
i decide to pretend that memory does not corrode
and chip off
in arbitrary chunks
and fall away

__________________
a gramophone its corrugated trumpet silver handle
spinning dog. such faithfulness it hear

it make you sick.

-kamau brathwaite

tecoyah

Usually reserved for drooling idiots in the tittie board but.......



i decide to pretend that memory does not corrode
and chip off
in arbitrary chunks
and fall away



Wow....just fuckin' wow

__________________
Holding onto anger is like grasping a hot coal with the intent of throwing it at someone else; you are the one who gets burned. - Buddha

cierah

Memory. The past fades in and out and changes with time and experience. Memories are figments of the past and are therefore not reliable. What they represent does not fade with time. The pain of a horrible memory strengthens with time and the joy of a happy memory lessens with time. Memory is a trick of the universe and should not be trusted. Memory.

ClostGoth

Heat beats down unrelenting and I hear the screen door slam behind me. Breezes push the porch swing, heavy and palpable with humidity, and it moans in protest. The oaks standing solemn above me wave and rustle.
Footsteps resound from inside and my heart quickens its pace. They are heavy and a throat is cleared. To avoid the inevitable confrontation, I stand and move down the steep, cement steps and into my grandmother’s yard. He won’t follow me in this heat, not today. I’ll be safe.
My Aunt’s old horse crops lazily at his circle of grass, dragging his clinking chain. He is more of a pony, really, with his shaggy coat and round body. He is a Marsh Tacky, pride of the South. The Swamp Fox rode one to victory in the swamps near my home in the war. I’ve grown up hearing the stories and being told I’m a “Daughter of the Revolution”; the war is much more alive here today than it probably should be.
Trouble, aptly named because of his wilder, younger days, raises his head and whinnies at my arrival. Perhaps he’s hoping for a breath mint or a chew of tobacco – they are his favorites and my uncles indulge him shamelessly. I rub his satin soft nose and burry my face against his sturdy shoulder. The warm fuzz and homey horse smell seem to make everything safe, and I wrap my arms as far as they will go around his beloved neck. He stamps a foot impatiently, but good-naturedly accepts my attention. He completely ignores the black lab that has followed me.
The breeze has died and the sweltering heat is trying to become unbearable. Unwilling to return to the house, I pull softly at Trouble’s halter, unhitching his lead. “Wanna go for a trot, old man?” His ears prick and he whickers. I’ve finally said something worth hearing.
Grabbing a handful of wiry black mane, I hoist myself onto Trouble’s back and wrap my legs at an awkward angle around his bloated belly. Shorts were probably not the best choice for bareback riding, but his fuzzy, chestnut coat feels nice against my skin for the moment. I push his neck and move my body toward the fields behind the house, communicating my desired direction without the use of reigns. Poor Trouble’s mouth has been so sorely abused through years of training riders that it would be more work to use them than not. He turns and obediently plods toward the freshly plowed fields.
The rich smell of freshly turned black dirt doesn’t accompany this trip into the wilderness. We have had a drought and the fields lay fallow; the fertile soil dry and cracked and more closely resembling a desert in Arizona than a cotton field in South Carolina. Trouble’s hooves send puffs of dust up in our wake. I know that they will have seen my dust trail at the house, and I glance behind me at the lumbering Victorian. All that is visible is a small kitchen window framed in a blank white wall and capped by a sharp, green-tiled roof. Most of the house is hidden by the oaks that surround it, but I know I am much more visible to them than they are to me.
I nudge Trouble in the side and slide low around his neck, wrapping my hands securely in his mane. I aim him toward a clump of trees in the distance and lean forward, and he takes the hint. His normally slow, plodding gait gives way to an even trot. He’s not exactly a prize winner in the pace department, but I don’t mind the bumps as the hot wind whips my ponytail behind me and the house I so wish to avoid disappears. We are headed to the old Indian burial ground, though I’ve never been certain there are any human remains there. I believe it is more superstition than fact, but its air of mystery and the stories that are spread will certainly mean we will be left alone as we wander. I would like to think that Trouble shares my elation. For now, this moment in time, a small blip in the life of a 16yr old, I am free.

__________________
I may not have gone where I intended to go, but I think I have ended up where I intended to be.
--Douglas Adams

Yukimura

The policeman stands, look unchanging.
He strikes as stern, will unwavering.
But to me, he looks as though he'll cry.
I know that I will cry.
I say a final goodbye, but I can't quit.
That can't be my final goodbye.
Why do you have to go?
It doesn't make any sense for you to leave.
You just came back, I missed you so much.
Now you'll leave again?
Surely there's nothing that's worth this pain!
We can fight an army to stay together.
We can fight any foe to stay close.
So why do you tell me you have to go?
No force on earth could make you.
Why do you tell me you have to go?
It's something I'll never understand.
Please don't go...
Dad.

__________________
Maybe the answer is in the very light reflected off our blades. Maybe that's what it means to be this creature known as samurai.

tecoyah

Beautiful....thank you

Wolfwood

This is something that is hard for me to talk about, but surprisingly easy for me to write about...more a string of connected memories than just one.

I remember that day.
The sun was shining bright
in those clear blue skies.
The family, my family, gathered
to celebrate those who gave birth to us.

Dad was by the grill,
spatula in one hand, beer in the other.
A smile on his face as the grill sizzled
while he flipped burgers and dogs.
Everyone was smiling
as we sat on that weather-worn picnic table.

A crunch rang out over the merriment
as a sironed cruiser pulled into our pebbled driveway.
The skies seemed to darken
with two dark clouds, with badges.

They pulled my Dad aside, then my mom soon after.
Confusion was all I felt.
Weren't cops and moms supposed to be good guys?
They lowered her head as she got in the back;
cuffs weren't really necessary, just protocol.
It's ironic to me now that Mother's Day
was the day they took my mom away.

A few weeks have passed,
she's been placed in an institution
where the diagnosis is manic depression.
About ten years and two misdemeanor shoplifting charges to late.
She's a felon now, not yet convicted, and sick.

We go to visit, the place is depressing.
Like those living there.
Small bare rooms, barred windows, simples beds,
and bare souls reflected out of glazed eyes.

We, my brother, sister, and I
sit in the visiting room, waiting.
Dad stands, fighting back tears with built up anger.
He doesn't cry.

Mom walks in,
we all rush to hug her.
She doesn't quite feel the same.
Though, looking back now, I should've realized-
nothing was the same, nor would it ever be again.

Another month or so passes
and the gavel sounds.
"Five years probation." the Judge sentences,
followed by a stern reprimand.

Seems Mom's defense attorney did her job.
If I believed in God, or anything for that matter,
I might've thought her a saint.
But as she said, "Just doing my job."

Few years down the road,
everything seems fine-
'cept there little, or rather, no trust now.
It's the hardest thing to gain
amongst the cynical people of today's world.
The easiest thing to break
and nearly impossible to gain back.

Today, everything is fine
though sometimes those thoughts,
those feelings,
and those memories still haunt.
And it is still ironic to me that Mother's Day
was the day my Mom was taken away.

__________________

We're nothing like God. Not only do we have limited powers, but sometimes we're driven to become the devil himself.

Yukimura

Deep Bahdra. I like it a lot. Keep stuff like this coming ^.^

__________________
Maybe the answer is in the very light reflected off our blades. Maybe that's what it means to be this creature known as samurai.