Sunday, April 27, 2014

Memory tree

An ancient tree stands in the shining bright of the summer sun.  It has seen many before, and it has no more living roots or leaves to welcome it.  But it remains there.  Reminding us of its life, long after the life has gone.  But I am not a tree.  My living memory is kept inside my mind. 

I am unsure how long I will be around, as I grow tired of offering bits and pieces of my soul and being, only to be crushed from the outside.  No, when I pass I won't be like this tree, others have my words, and experiences with who I am, but I am not going to remain.  There is no sense in that.  So ask my wife or son who I am.  Ask my friends.  If you leave it to my flesh to remember, it will fail, because I'll be gone. 

I don't plan to die, who does?  But I don't intend to be a living monolith. My flesh is not a monument to life, my life is a monument to that


“When you live with another person for 50 years, all of your memories are invested in that person, like a bank account of shared memories. It’s not that you refer to them constantly. In fact, for people who do not live in the past, you almost never say, “Do you remember that night we...?” But you don’t have to. That is the best of all. You know that the other person does remember. Thus, the past is part of the present as long as the other person lives. It is better than any scrapbook, because you are both living scrapbooks.”  

Federico Fellini

Tuesday, April 22, 2014

In the middle of the night ...

I watch hours of surgery videos on youtube.  I think I do because I've always had a yearning to know everything about my body, and I am fascinated seeing the images that could be my very own viscera.  Would mine be so diseased or wounded?  Could I endure this painful procedure?  I don't know.  But I do know that the poet looks into spiritual and emotional portions of humanity, and the viscera contains our foul humors.

Why do I do it?
I don't know.

I confess I shall never get sick or faint from the sight of blood, or from seeing things that would make some people scream. I know I am not a sadist, and if a masochist only in the mental self abuse that a creative person goes through, and all INFJ's go through.  So while I've become quite immune to feeling ill over seeing an exposed liver, or the removal of an appendix that has burst,  I remain full of sorrow to hear someone's broken heart is breaking.

Link to the interview

The large 3 part interview that used to occupy a space here
has been compiled and placed upon

Click that link to get to the full interview.  Thanks for reading it.  It was
gratifying to share with my friends and family, and