It is before sunrise in the Winter on a stormy morning weeping rain. the heater blower and the refrigerator are sonorous beacons in the darkness of this small place that I inhabit. I’d rather be back under the covers of that past tense sag of my own blanket encumbered bed. But those dreams of the night won’t allow it. The maddening part is that I cannot recall them! The last twenty years my consciousness has suffered a decline coincidental with the introduction of the Internet. Maybe what is whispered around the more unofficial corners of that medium is true? Maybe all these wireless frequency based devices change one? The screen of one now before me the only beacon of light in an otherwise silently alive electrical place. My place.
I do recall being asked to be someone’s Godfather which I reluctantly pondered. I do recall that I was old getting older and possessing less and less. Just like now. But the entire backstory and action is like a mysterious border in the next hotel room that one know their presence through what one can hear but nothing else. Palpable but having nothing concrete to to pin it on. Memories and past associations built on vague associations flooding through my head like an unexpected mudslide come of too much rain. The feeling of a personal abandonment to that toothless goddess of failure whose empty embrace mocks your entire being with that never satisfiable question, “What have I done of any lasting substance in this life?” The grand mocking joke that one’s weary intellect feebly responds to this vacuous maw being show me the same of all previous empires in the dust and sediment traveling in rivers and air? An easy out but of little use to the present.
What might have been done that could have been considered viable is now in the past with the ashes of my family performed for them and them alone. Without that anchor there is only an existence on a beach where the waves carry away your footsteps and the tides subsume your best attempts at permanency of the previous day. There is the vague feeling of a never ending now falling under the yardstick of the dimness of past events. As slim and insubstantial as one’s dreams out of both self pity and self defense. Only the measure of one’s own cowardice seems to resonate. Only the legacy of accumulated great ideas and sure fire schemes that seemed to work in youth but no longer! Only the mildew of all that once was but now molders away in dart corners waiting for the inevitable passing that is one’s eventual destination.
The tragedy, if there is one, being in the trivia of the day being that same ocean that unseen universal powers send forth to erase us little by little. The sting of Prometheus to struggle each night naked on the rocks chained to one’s folly. Awakening to find the rumple of clothes where they were left from the night before. Pants over the doorway, shoes and socks by the door. Maybe the folly lies evident before us in the many collections of items each containing an association to a memory of a significant event. A temporal desire fulfilled for the passing instant? A monument to something that one wished to continue with a wish for it to continue in a fruitful sense and multiply? Something only animal offspring and children can do. These are the scales that one weighs in the mind when they think of life in the past. What has come and gone? A lamp a table from early childhood. A gift from an anniversary or wedding. A place to put those now insubstantial bygone smiles of the shadowy faces long dissipated past recall.
Perhaps this failure to properly recall everything is a gift after all? For where would one end up if they could?