|The Dinos prepare for all out warfare|
Perhaps it is because of this constant noise in my home (paired with the severe lack of adult conversation or companionship) that I have found a way to retreat. And rather than sitting myself upon a sunny beach with a rum punch in my hand and dolphins jumping near the reef in the distance, I have chosen to hash through all sorts of old and completely random memories from all periods of my life like a broke bargain hunter at the world's largest rummage sale...so much for sale, no money to buy...trash and treasures galore.
But mostly trash.
Reflecting can be a seriously useless exercise. Scratch that. Reflecting can be downright dangerous and bad for your health. All the wisest idiots throughout history understand this - it's why we are so often at war and why rome will fall again and again: reflecting is bad for the cyclical nature of progress and failure. God forbid we should learn from our mistakes. But I digress.
I'm not trying to be a negative nancy here but my reflections have turned up a lot of awkwardness at best and grief at worst. So here I am sifting through embarrassment after embarrassment, mistake after mistake, death after loss after missed opportunity. Even high points have turned into something to be mistrusted...did that really happen?...perhaps that person was just lying to me...
Yes, welcome to my melancholy.
People are messy. So are memories. LIFE is messy...really fucking messy. And I'm trying to figure out when I became a neat freak. (Figuratively of course, my house is a mess: I rely on the dogs to clean up after the 11 month old has eaten, the six year old - as I mentioned before - well, all I really have to say about him is: he's a boy. And I'm a terrible multi-tasker.) No, what I'm saying is I'm trying to figure out when my desire for The Life I Understood became incompatible with The Life That Actually Happened.
How interesting that the changing currents of the present can completely and dramatically recolor the past. What is there to be relied upon? We are terrible eye witnesses. TERRIBLE. 11 different people had 11 different versions of what happened to Michael Brown the day he got shot down by a cop in Ferguson Missouri. We cannot be relied upon to recall events accurately in any way. So why are we plagued with the talent of remembrance? Cursed with the skill for the totally unreliable recollection of thought and experience. Why must we keep lying to ourselves and calling it the truth?
One of the first posts I wrote had to do with an old trunk I have that I open only when it's absolutely necessary that I put something in it. When I do open it I don't dig around - I put the thing in and shut it as quick as I can. This trunk holds old remembrances that I can't possibly part with but which I also cannot possibly stand to have about my house, just out where I can see. The act of touching these old things I own produces a kinetic shock to my memory. It's like I have to relive all these old experiences when I touch these old photos, journals, scrapbooks, etc. So I lock them away...maybe for a time when I hope they will have lost their potency and I can finally manage to just throw them away without concern for the sentiment of that symbology.
These reflections I've been having are like digging through that trunk. But now I can't just open it and put something in real quick and shut the lid. That doesn't really work when it's your brain. (soul? Where are memories stored?) In this instance the trunk seems to be full. Overflowing in fact. Which means it's time for a purge.
Hence the blog today. And maybe one tomorrow. Tomorrow's will be about kindness. About how Im interested in seeing it make a comeback.