In Memorandom

In thinking back on when I was with you, I realized this:
I can't recall who was the worst of us?

Was it I or you that slammed the car door that broke the window?
Where did all of that anger come from?

I can see the scene. Perfectly, still.
I can see you slamming the door and the window falling in. I see myself standing opposite the car, gazing into the fallen window - afraid.

But then.

I can see myself slamming the door and the window falling in. I see you standing opposite the car, gazing into the fallen window - afraid.

I see both of us sitting on the curb together, considering how you or I was wrong.
I can hear each of us calling the locksmith.
I can see each of us, in turn, paying for it.

Which is the correct vision?
I think both are.

And, for the first time, I can comprehend that past.
And, at last, hope to release it.

Forget it.

I forget that no-one else in on the same journey that I am. That if I look for those on the same road as me, I will only meet with disappointment, despair, distrust in all of this community. I will never find rest, will never find companionship, will never meet those who can escalate to what it is I am searching for.

I forget that you are here to challenge me. To set me in the right direction through your dissent and discontent with the ways I become when I see so wrongly. And I will never be what you say I could have been if I am always against you in this.

I forget that I must have trust, along with truth. That I am not a singular becon of the right, of the correct, of the only way to get to the end. I am stumble my way there eventually, but so will many others. So will you.

And I forget that you are there to stumble along with me - no matter where either of us go.

Forgive me.
For I'm only fearful, very frettful, extremely forgettful.
And I need your light to help show the way through the darkness I create.
Need your day to compliment my night.

Do not let me go alone.
Do not let me forget forever.

my old life

There have been a few things here and there that have reminded me lately of the way my life used to go.

A mention of where you used to work, old habits of putting milk on the bottom rack of the fridge, a song or two - all these things get me to thinking.

I cut a bagel for the kitchen today. In fact, I cut two of them.
I wonder what it would be like to work in our kitchen.
I'm not sure I want to find out.

But I miss crepes and having to remember anyone who ordered one. I miss making espresso drinks for myself from two-hour old espresso. I miss being able to pour flavoring syrups.

I miss keeping milk on the bottom shelf in the fridge.

Oh well. This is a new life, and something good will come of it.
If nothing more, missing the old is good in its own little cozy way.

And perhaps, we will see the world from all this.

I hope.

Forgive me, for not immediately loving this book.

I had no respect whatsoever for the creative works of either the painter or the novelist. I thought Karabekian with his meaningless pictures had entered into a conspiracy with millionaires to make poor people feel stupid. I thought Beatrice Keedsler had joined hands with other old-fashioned storytellers to make people believe that life had leading characters, minor characters, significant details, insignificant details, that it had lessons to be learned, tests to be passed, and a beginning, a middle, and an end.

As I approached my fiftieth birthday, I had become more and more enraged and mystified by the idiot decisions made by my countrymen. And then I had come suddenly to pity them, for I understood how innocent and natural it was for them to behave so adominably, and with such adominable results: They were doing their best to live like people invented in story books. This was the reason Americans shot each other so often: It was a convenient literary device for ending short stories and books.

Why were so many Americans treated by their government as though their lives were as disposable as paper facial tissues? Because that was the way authors customarily treated bit-part players in their made-up tales.

And so on.

Once I understood what was making America such a dangerous, unhappy nation of people who had nothing to do with real life, I resolved to shun storytelling. I would write about life. Every person would be exactly as important as any other. All facts would also be given equal weightiness. Nothing would be left out. Let others bring oder to chaos. I would bring chaos to order, instead, which I think I have done.

If all writers would do that, then perhaps citizens not in the literary trades will understand that there is no order in the world around us, that we must adapt ourselves to the requirements of chaos instead.

It is hard to adapt to chaos, but it can be done. I am living proof of that: It can be done.
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And yet again, the blatant brilliance and harsh honesty of Vonnegut comes to bear.
And I thought this was a silly book.

I see yet again, my own intentions and ambitions reflected in one much wiser than I.
Perhaps before I die, I will see what Vonnegut saw.

And be able to articulate it.