It was as though we had fallen into a sinkhole of time. This clapboard and stucco town caught my heart as soon as I stepped into the tavern and saw the tiny stage set for melodrama and mayhem. The moneyed wallpaper, signed with notes from well-wishers from around the world, framed a bar layered with the smoke and dust of time.
A burly-bearded watchdog extended a cautious greeting as we walked into the saloon. Heads turned and the soft chatter ceased as we walked past each table - artists, con men, seekers of sanctuary... these were the faces staring back out of the dim light. Even the local canines sniffed cautiously before accepting a friendly ruffling of scruffy heads.
Hundreds had visited this hamlet with doors that shouted its history and demise.
One solitary road ambled through, beckoning the traveler to wander off onto dirt paths and rocky gutted trails. Shop windows blinked and stared blankly through eccentricities and closed signs. Locals stretched lazily on the steps or lingered in the dirt streets. The center cafe was silent as shaggy dogs with shaggy children played in the empty lot next door.
Tuesday, April 29, 2014
Keeper of Lost Hearts
To the keeper of lost hearts,
I extend this line -
Please show me to this heart of mine.
Today I watched the desert fade
as I mourned the childish plans I’d made
to live in solitude,
and play along the dusky Milky Way
of lost dreams and hidden fears –
all too often lost in tears
of frustration and of despair.
I’d planned someday to tarry there.
To the keeper of lost ways, I send this verse.
Though not meaning to be terse,
I wish to find my way back to the solitude I thought I knew -
the peace of heart and strength of mind
which only the childlike heart can find.
Keeper of lost hearts and ways,
Return us to our youthful days.
Please show me to this heart of mine.
Today I watched the desert fade
as I mourned the childish plans I’d made
to live in solitude,
and play along the dusky Milky Way
of lost dreams and hidden fears –
all too often lost in tears
of frustration and of despair.
I’d planned someday to tarry there.
To the keeper of lost ways, I send this verse.
Though not meaning to be terse,
I wish to find my way back to the solitude I thought I knew -
the peace of heart and strength of mind
which only the childlike heart can find.
Keeper of lost hearts and ways,
Return us to our youthful days.
Unmemories
Old photo albums
Carefully and lovingly packed away
Stored in the closet protected
From dust and life
I pulled them out expectantly
Waiting for memories to flood the room
When I opened the covers
I was met with unmemories
Pictures of places I don’t recall
People who no longer exist
Time and tide have pulled them from my reach
No longer part of the mental archive I cling to
So many miles… so many faces.
They are all becoming unmemories.
How many more will I lose?
Carefully and lovingly packed away
Stored in the closet protected
From dust and life
I pulled them out expectantly
Waiting for memories to flood the room
When I opened the covers
I was met with unmemories
Pictures of places I don’t recall
People who no longer exist
Time and tide have pulled them from my reach
No longer part of the mental archive I cling to
So many miles… so many faces.
They are all becoming unmemories.
How many more will I lose?
Lies, more lies, and half-truths
Mendacium vivit. I awoke this morning to the realization that many of the memories I have of my childhood are fabrications. I was not the victim of some nefarious gaslighting scheme, nor did I stumble upon a box of incriminating letters that had been secreted away. Instead, I was the willing captive of my own mind. All of the things I had ever believed are now in question, thanks to the bizarre chemistry locked inside my brain.
The dysthymic mind is a toxic cocktail of chemicals that ebb and flow, causing emotional waves and troughs. But it also manifests as a small voice - alternately devil and angel, that whispers lies and half truths in our ears. Somewhere in the middle lies the reality of life - simple, heartbreaking, or glorious, depending upon the day.
This morning, when my cat tore into me at 4 am trying to play, I called him a little tiger. Flashback to my childhood and the pet names my father had given us as children. Pigeon for my sister, Tiger for me. I am sure that I was a little hellion in my youth, and Dad had found it worthy of a fierce nickname - one that I used to cherish. Many years later, he called me a warrior - high praise from a man who had spent his entire life in some sort of war. Yet for the past few years, all I seem to remember were the slights, the whippings, the cruel things he said. That was not the reality of my youth, or not all of it. It was the part that my sick mind wanted to remember to justify using my father as a scapegoat. My excuse for not succeeding. My Achilles heel.
I used to think that my father was this tyrannical, cruel, and unstable fellow who beat me mercilessly and called me cruel names. Perhaps he was, but I never gave him credit for being kind or loving. The reality is that Dad was also sick, and had his own issues. But he did pretty well under the circumstances. He kept a job and supported a family of four. He taught my sister and me to do the things he knew how to do - play football, throw a baseball, play golf. He showed me how to plow and plant a garden. How to be creative in the kitchen - very creative at times, with recipes such as gravy cakes, lemon cornbread, and ice cream cake. Not all were successful, as you could imagine.
Dad was good at so many things. He taught me chess, and gave me the gift of music. He was a prolific photographer, and had a keen legal mind. He made sure I could change a tire and change the oil and parallel park. All of this from the man who I once thought never loved me.
I won't deny that there were hard times. Dad was also suffering from some sort of imbalance, and he chose to self-medicate with pain pills and alcohol. But that was not the whole of his existence, and I would do well to remember all of him. It might help me be kinder to myself at times. He could be a good and generous man. His friends spoke well of him. His enemies feared him. He was tenacious when he thought something needed to be fixed, whether it was an old car, or a failing government. We was himself a warrior, often choosing quixotic causes and rearing up at windmills, but fierce and unfailing in his quest. The cool thing was that in his battles, he very often made a difference in the greater world. That is part of his legacy.
The frightening thing is that on any given day, my memory of my own life is also wrapped up in half-truths. I have difficulty separating the facts from the beliefs. I have books of letters and affidavits lauding the contributions I made while I was in the Navy, but I only remember the failures, the days spent weeping in some bathroom stall or wandering in a gray fog due to depression. I have forgotten that I, too, was a fierce contender, tilting at my own windmills. Where is the warrior that my father saw? Who else knew about that tiger within? On my best days, I shone bright as a copper penny. Those days, too, deserve a place on my mental shelf, along with the trophies and disappointments that come with living.
The dysthymic mind is a toxic cocktail of chemicals that ebb and flow, causing emotional waves and troughs. But it also manifests as a small voice - alternately devil and angel, that whispers lies and half truths in our ears. Somewhere in the middle lies the reality of life - simple, heartbreaking, or glorious, depending upon the day.
This morning, when my cat tore into me at 4 am trying to play, I called him a little tiger. Flashback to my childhood and the pet names my father had given us as children. Pigeon for my sister, Tiger for me. I am sure that I was a little hellion in my youth, and Dad had found it worthy of a fierce nickname - one that I used to cherish. Many years later, he called me a warrior - high praise from a man who had spent his entire life in some sort of war. Yet for the past few years, all I seem to remember were the slights, the whippings, the cruel things he said. That was not the reality of my youth, or not all of it. It was the part that my sick mind wanted to remember to justify using my father as a scapegoat. My excuse for not succeeding. My Achilles heel.
I used to think that my father was this tyrannical, cruel, and unstable fellow who beat me mercilessly and called me cruel names. Perhaps he was, but I never gave him credit for being kind or loving. The reality is that Dad was also sick, and had his own issues. But he did pretty well under the circumstances. He kept a job and supported a family of four. He taught my sister and me to do the things he knew how to do - play football, throw a baseball, play golf. He showed me how to plow and plant a garden. How to be creative in the kitchen - very creative at times, with recipes such as gravy cakes, lemon cornbread, and ice cream cake. Not all were successful, as you could imagine.
Dad was good at so many things. He taught me chess, and gave me the gift of music. He was a prolific photographer, and had a keen legal mind. He made sure I could change a tire and change the oil and parallel park. All of this from the man who I once thought never loved me.
I won't deny that there were hard times. Dad was also suffering from some sort of imbalance, and he chose to self-medicate with pain pills and alcohol. But that was not the whole of his existence, and I would do well to remember all of him. It might help me be kinder to myself at times. He could be a good and generous man. His friends spoke well of him. His enemies feared him. He was tenacious when he thought something needed to be fixed, whether it was an old car, or a failing government. We was himself a warrior, often choosing quixotic causes and rearing up at windmills, but fierce and unfailing in his quest. The cool thing was that in his battles, he very often made a difference in the greater world. That is part of his legacy.
The frightening thing is that on any given day, my memory of my own life is also wrapped up in half-truths. I have difficulty separating the facts from the beliefs. I have books of letters and affidavits lauding the contributions I made while I was in the Navy, but I only remember the failures, the days spent weeping in some bathroom stall or wandering in a gray fog due to depression. I have forgotten that I, too, was a fierce contender, tilting at my own windmills. Where is the warrior that my father saw? Who else knew about that tiger within? On my best days, I shone bright as a copper penny. Those days, too, deserve a place on my mental shelf, along with the trophies and disappointments that come with living.
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