Tuesday, May 06, 2014

Before. There is always before.
There is after. This, we become.
But the mind can play tricks.
It creates a blank space here.

Memory may say: this, then this.
But where do the lost selves go?
Are they caught between centuries?
Does their vision mirror our dreams?

As a child, I would pretend blindness,
To teach my fingers how to see.
As long as water remained, and earth,
I held hope as a seed in my hand.



2 comments:

Tim Buck said...

The book I'm halfway through reading -- Walter Benjamin: A Critical Life -- discusses some things about his essay "Excavation and Memory":

"In these laconic reflections, taking a cue from the nature of language, Benjamin argues that memory is not first of all an instrument for surveying the past, not simply a recorder and storehouse. Rather, memory is conceived as the theater of the past, the permeable medium of past experiences....What is called remembrance is the actualization of a vanished moment in its manifold depth, its meaning."



Iulia Flame said...

Those are some lovely words. What a writers' writer--Benjamin.

Memory can be a theater, a lens through which the past can be viewed and sifted, gleaned. It can be an attic full of trunks, neglected for years--or inspected on a daily basis. It can take years for a memory to ripen into comprehension. Sometimes there is the sudden sensation, a dark illumination--and when one tugs at the feeling, the thread goes back to a certain day, and this can happen again and again. The trick is to discover how to write about these processes in a way that does not bore the reader. Otherwise--it is just therapy. :)

En plein air - in memoriam Andrew Bellon

A dreamless sleep falls from the shimmering leaves. --Sappho fragment, tr. Andrew Bellon I changed, thickened, ...

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