In Living Memory

Cautiously, I’m sharing bits of my work in progress that readers of this blog may have heard about. I shared the image above with a Canadian poet on Threads in response to a question, “What did you learn from your childhood experiences? It was different from other garnered responses, and it stands alone. I think the writing here was solid.

It took a good while to write those two paragraphs. Because they originate in living memory, outside of language, I understood what happened and assigned meaning only after repeated drafts preceded by long consideration. Probably why it takes me so long to write autobiography.

That I called this experience a defining moment means, at least in part, I thought about what happened a lot. There is a scar on my forehead to remind me of it every time I look in the mirror. Any more, I don’t think about the scar and what caused it, but over a lifetime I remember those days, what happened, and what the experience means to me now.

How does one communicate about living memory? These paragraphs are one way, and as written, I don’t have any revisions. I captured something that resonates. Over the years, I wrote a lot about René Descartes, including this passage:

I studied René Descartes at university and spent substantial effort considering his first principle, cogito, ergo sum, or in English, “I think, therefore I am.” I wrote about my Cartesian outlook toward life. We are isolated beings, wrapped in a veil of humanity, closer to God, or its divine essence than we realize. Such veil, metaphorical or not, is woven of delicate threads, like the lace of Morbihan, or silk from China. We could spend a lot of time marveling in its delicate needlework or shimmering surface. Yet we are compelled to reach out beyond the veil.

Attending University, Blog Post, Feb. 19, 2022.

If I entered a funk about my work in progress after having some people read a draft, then I am now coming out of it feeling ready to begin anew. There is a story, more than one, residing in memory. I felt compelled to start that story. 127,511 words in, the compulsion to finish it strengthens. There is little timing of my creative endeavors. I only know, for this work, the time is now.