"My first memory is of pain" writes Jaren in a beautiful post--truly a pleasure to read, a treat, like getting off a plane to feel warm Arizona air in the middle of winter.
I can't remember my first memory because my mind doesn't work backward anymore--in a chronological order. It's arranged more like a complicated spider's web. And each new sensation floats rather than attaches, while each new experience stays at the back of my neck until I'm ready to inspect it, pick it apart to know the danger before it explodes; consequently, my neck feels stretched to the point of breaking. Because what's the point of moving a new experience in to center stage, white space until I've named the core ones and placed them in a clean "well-lighted room"--nailed them to the floor, so I can see them, handle them, paint them any color I want? I think I've spent most of my life shell-shocked from my own anger at how the universe twists and turns so flippantly. Most events happen much too soon--before I am ready. What would it take for me to stand open-armed at the forefront of my life again? Or is this "naming of parts" an old woman feeling the movement toward her own death? It's an awfully morbid thought to see all of us marching toward our own graves, yet it's not like we can say "No, I'd prefer not to." We just move along toward . . . understanding? I don't think so. Compassion? I hope so because that would make it all worth while.
Jaren catches much with his openng line.
7 comments:
This could be the greatest day in the history of the universe. You fixed the blog!
Here's what I like: I misinterpreted the left margin of the page. Under "Sentimental Favorites" I thought that the dead beaver was included under that heading. I was very excited for a minute, to think that you were that awesome, but then I realized my error and was disillusioned once again.
Why didn't you turn that bad boy into a hat or some ear muffs or something? PETA would probably even paint it for you free of charge.
I know what you mean about life's experiential nightmare. It's like swimming with clothes on. All that ponderous weight pulling at your limbs while the waves crest ever higher.
Do you think readiness before the fact would render the experience unnecessary?
By the way, how did you persuade the life out of the beaver?
There's a fine beaver story by Tobias Wolff in his first collection, In the Garden of the North American Martyrs, called "Poaching" I think. If you like that sort of stuff. Which I do.
Long story, J. full of blood, guts, anger, and cold-blooded killing. I truly love and admire beavers. They've always fascinated me, but . . .
Sharon, it is good to read your writing again. And I'm glad you figured out how to enable comments hahaha, I didn't even have to do it for you.
I also first thought the dead beaver was catalogued until "sentimental favorites"....and actually, I think it will be. Do you still have that gun?
until=under
I, also, think it fits under sentimental favorites. Some night over a late campfire while we roast marshmellows, I'll tell you the whole story, and you'll agree.
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