Memoirs of A Walk Through November
Memoir 42
I don't know where this starts…or where it ends. Actually, I suppose metaphysics tells us that
a given point on the scale would represent both and neither, but that's for
another time. Funny. For another time. Ah, the pen is dead, my digital life, no
inflection, no voice, no right brain on the paper. It's not like Kurt Cobain anymore; he knew
what he had to do. He painted the room
with his thoughts, scattered though they were, they moved me. Although my words may seem staggered, I find
them seamless, they transition through my mind effortlessly, and I glean some
novel idea here, some unique insight there…it dances through my intellect so
softly now, almost as if it refines itself to the sound of life in real time,
the music we call existence. If you
cannot follow, simply consider that it is not my words that lack purpose and
direction, but rather the perspective by which you take them. Like space bends reality from our eyes, my
mind bends language to my will, a gift from where I know not. Where was I?
The beginning, perhaps the beginning is somewhere in the middle, like
axes on a graph; the origin. I suppose
I'll begin with her…it seems a perfect place to start, good as any,
perhaps. She wears a red dress, in a sea
of white dresses. Her body so small, so
fragile. It matters not, because she has
the soul of a pirate, her skin kissed by some sunlight from a distant land, her
beauty knowing no equal. I stand next to
her, she doodles in her manual of all things that are and are not, because
chemistry is small to her. Her mind is
fascinating, I think I feel her teleology, slipping through the air in
compressions, wrought with profundity. I wonder how she can be so wonderful. If you've ever smelled the wind in the Midwest
American spring, the smell of the Earth giving back the life she once swallowed,
her voice would dance in my ears as this scent would dance in my primary
cranial nerves, directly linked to my hippocampus, and the rest, dear friend,
is just memory. Maybe I'll never speak
to her again…maybe I've learned how to harness a sensation that is forged for
all time, unable to become dirtied and adulterated by our heartrending
character. Freeze it, so it may not
breathe again, but there are many ways to cheat he who comes to take us into
darkness. Maybe if I could find a way
for it to breathe…like it breathes in my slumber…Happiness is bittersweet, it
seems the universe has a way of reaching equilibrium, a place where maybe Schrodinger
would tell you the cake is both had, and had not, and Hawking would explain
that eating it too is much more complicated, if only you understood space-time. But she exists in all of my time, no matter
my gravitational force, no matter my velocity or dimension. Relativity loses itself, and there is no
observer, only us. In a moment, one
single moment, I have an absolute. Maybe
I have omniscience for just one infinitesimal fraction of time, one wave of
cesium dances, and in that instant, it is all so very clear. And like moments often do, it vanishes,
leaving behind perhaps a minute token, left to haunt my neurophysiology for all
of my days, until my mechanics betray their purpose, and my days no longer
measure. And I seek these truths with
fierce invasiveness, no cost too great.
When I feel tired, exhausted from this endeavor, I think of her, relentlessly
I press on, and the brief peace is worth infinity, no matter the violence that
rages through my mind. I see her and
imagine the rain on her face, how she has such a way about her, effortlessly making
the world a more beautiful place. Her
smile offers light to the star, so that it too may shine bright, because she
has kindness in her heart. I don't
recall the number of the days that I have spent there, somehow it evades me; the
seasons don't change, where she is from.
See, it's always lovely in this place.
And then the rarefaction surges through my experience, I submit to existentialism. And the moment is over, she's gone. The happiness is gone, because I know it's
always lovely there. She's never seen
the leaves burn like fire in the autumn throes, nor observed the blue moon hide
behind the skeletons and snow. She's
never hurt so bad she broke, been so lost that she extinguished hope. There is a place, if you could find a tree in
this place, the tree would have no leaves. If you could find the sun in this
place, it would be hard to see behind all of the grey. I go there sometimes,
but it's empty, you see. My father takes the blade out of the razor, and hands
it to me. He shows me how to shave my face. We shave together, just me and Dad.
I'm just a child, so happy to spend time with his father, with a father patient
enough to play a little game with shaving. That seems like an eternity ago, in
a different world, with different people. My father grows older now, as do I.
We don't shave together anymore...who has time to do a silly thing like that?
This place is empty, you see, I just don't know if it's empty here or there...It
would break my heart if hearts were broken in this place, but her red dress is
just as red, her loving smile is just as soft, and she wanders through my
hell. And I grin, the story that etches
my face cracks, I could never follow her, because where she goes is a mystery,
the one mystery I dare not chase, because it's mine. I digress; I lift The Giving Tree off of its place in my world, like often I have
done so in the past. It soothes my
grieving soul, and I find what I am looking for, though what it is I cannot
discern, and maybe I never will.
Live long,
Spatter
