Within the scope of my childhood that now has departed along with those who had conspired together to bring me forth into it, little remains. A few memories linger mainly mental images along with a sequence or two of a vast expansive world of light and color and that kind of positivity that only a baby that is well-attended to can ever hope to realize. Converted to the present tense lack of sentiment apparent within the ever-ticking clock of this modern world worshiping technology, my own little engine’s epiphanies being tossed off to simple chemistry. The animal reassurance of a mother that was preoccupied with her latest invention, constantly available to reassure it. The physical effect of random commercial artifacts purchased with some assurance specially designed for the crib to enliven the untried sensibilities of the ‘table raza’ of this empty little bucket ready to be filled. The valiant struggle of the parents to rise above their lack of circumstances to provide the best most scientifically validated nutritional pabulum of that day. However, my own current recollections of those long lost times not being so cluttered with these theoretical contrivances. Or the associated concerns of those authors who are no longer available for intimate commentaries that only they could have revealed to bring new light to the narrative behind the underlying subtleties of my upbringing. Hence, the smattering of voiceless imagery joins all the other snippets stored in the haphazard coffer of diminishing memory. The clear play of same from that projection booth deep in the back of my skull a random and occasional gift. One might even say, ‘magic’.
So. The current mental inventory varying like the local library stacks, some permanently borrowed, misplaced, and no longer available. Some unfinished thoughts waylaid deep in the past arriving back after hours seeking final resolutions clad profusely in the barnacles of regrets. The present sense of existence demanding a constant careening in opposition that would create the world’s largest museum to maintain them as they seem to be in all their many manifestations. The intellectually driven realities determining the proper combination of everyday to properly balance out against the luxury of time wasted in the worship of these other flights of fancy. How to turn your misused idling into salable product for the edification of others? The dilemma of the writer and the road that he might find to be a blind alley after it is too late. So many retrospection’s lay unused and dusty on these shelves that the first inkling to act engenders the perfect model of that impulse undertaken how many much times ago in one’s past. The physical form of one’s human body taking the brunt of this punishment by suffering ceaseless bouts of tension from the chronic state of irresolvable indecision. The bombardment of a chaos of bygone associations relating times past vying for the right to command that inner screen’s projection brightly flickering within.
So dimly put, “Bright colors dangling before the endless blue of empty atmosphere.” “A bouncing ride upon the saddle of my father’s shoulders as he climbed up an embankment of foliage glowing bright green in the mid-morning glare of the paradise of a late Spring day.” It is reasonable to assume that most people reserve the right to draw their last breaths in the darkness of night so as not to squander an earthly moment of the enjoyment of such glory. The extreme gulf in between birth and its demise so vast as to create an extreme added a supercharged element to the indulgence of such sensibilities. The response to such runaway feeling leading to a sense of lingering despair producing its opposite in a proclivity in putting on the brakes to not fall too low into the crevice. Could this be the true definition of ennui? Perhaps this is a reason the glass between slumber and waking seems so fogged? The clarity of the transition of awakening when all from both worlds seems so clear but instantly fleeting. Is this the answer to the questions of all the days so far?