Memories

I've been thinking about memories lately.  I've come to realize that some of my memories are not accurate or even true.  I've taken them out so many times to polish and shine them in the rearview window that they have come to mean something entirely different than what happened, which in itself is not always bad except when I confront them with the reality.  It was an anguishing moment to realize that my memories were really just something I longed for  and created as a backup for bad times.

So I then ask myself does the accuracy of my memories matter in all memories?  I don't think so.  Memories are deadly in an old boyfriend but are memories of happy childhood necessarily bad in their inaccuracy?

Today I had an opportunity to compare and contrast two memories.  It has left me a wee bit sad, achy, and bittersweet, kind of like the bitter after taste of a particularly hoppy beer.  The sip to the front of the mouth quenches and tingles on the tongue.  After swallowing it the hops bite the back of the throat and leave a bitter residue in the mouth.  With each swallow the alcohol kind of numbs the hop taste and gives a kind of a giddy feeling.  

I had one of those dreams last night.  I am always amazed that I can still dream of the first boyfriend for no rhyme or reason I can tell.  It is always a heady rush and I'm usually left with such longing that I am hungover for the day.  These are the memories I question for their accuracy.  These are the memories best left in the trunk and  in the scrapbooks.  I've found I don't trust the memories anymore.

Later while sitting in Starbucks reliving a childhood memory in verse I sent myself back to the time to taste and see the memory.

I could feel the sun and the sweat trickling over sunburn and freckles.  I could see the ribs of rock poking out of the dirt.  I could hear the low of cows, the clang of the windmill blades switching directions.  I could feel the ice flow of well water in the stock tank as I picked through the slimy algae to find the snails inhabiting the rusty sides.  

The wind in the cottonwoods make a certain rustling sounds that seem to be whispery voices.  I smell the grassy fresh manure with the blue bottle flies buzzing.  My feet make tracks in the powdery dust on the cattle trail.  I keep my eyes open  and feet on the path to avoid the field cactus and devil's thorn.  I can taste the dirt on the sweet wild onions from the pasture.  I wade through the dark chocolate mud at the pond's edge and strain my eyes to see the minnows darting and flashing silver in the murk.  

The pond in the pasture rimmed to the south by a grove of cottonwood trees was a magical oasis for me in my childhood.

As I relived that memory I asked myself,

"Do you suppose this memory is as inaccurate as the boyfriend memory?"

"Does it really matter if this one is inaccurate?"

No, I don't think so.

It's more of a conglomeration of memories, pressed, packed down with sediment to form a rock- a diamond or more appropriately a piece of limestone filled with dead sea creatures.  This one I won't pack away in a trunk.  It's seared in my brain like the Kansas sun on a 100 degree day.  It's in every freckle on my body.  

Memories,  a rock in a hard place?  Or a lie told to myself?

Canning Memories

What good is it to open jars,

long sealed on pantry shelves?

Rimmed in dust

and encrusted in spider eggs?

If I took them off the cellar shelf-

(shuddering at the wispy touch of mummy silk)

would light reveal

preserves or rot?

Could I hear the hallow sound

if I pinged the lid with my knuckle?

Would the dull thud reveal

 sooty strings of decay?

A seal broken by the years?

a stench of you long gone in the ground….

Or could I hold it to a light,

swinging on the end of a chain,

where the memories would be rich ruby red.

I’d climb the planks

of stairs,

feel the breath of cellar rock

at the nape of my neck.

I’d stride to the light,

and hold the memories high.

Maybe then to examine for cracks,

leaks of air, bulging sides.

Sniff for foul.

Would the memories hold with examination?

Or would the first touch of air,

dust the insides,

just as I am sure your body now resides in dust…

I take the church key,

apply with surgical precision,

pry the lid back,

and wait…

Whiffs of crème de mint, Tangueray, Oreos,

flypaper spit, and cigarette smoke,

on a late night prairie train…

with the Perseids

showering us in August,

melting across a Kansas sky.

Then they are extinguished…

 burnt up….

Like we are long since dead,

you in your coffin,

and I in my glass jar memories…

Finished the Adrienne Rich-My version of "Diving into the Wreck"

Shoveling the Wrack

First having read the Book of the Dead
and packed the sand bucket,
and tested the surface of the shovel
I put on
the waterproof slick coat
the chunky boots
the heart and polar scarf.
I am doing this
not like the Ugliest Catch
with their scraggy-haired crew
aboard tower tossed seas
but here alone.

There is a tangle
of kelp
the kelp is always there,
piled hazardously
at the high water mark

I know where it is from,
I've always known
somehow-
it reeks of death
and teams with orange plastic rope

I bend, touch the slime,
pulling strands of nylon, still
the tangle remains
the rot envelopes me
green bulbs
of kelp
bladder of ocean air

I scrabble
my scarf entwines weed
I burrow like dogs digging treasure
and no one tells me
where the sand
will begin...

At a glance the mass is green and then
it is kaki and then brown and then
beige I am smothering in sand and yet
my shovel is mightier
it strains my muscle with leverage
Till the ocean bubbles up
to collapse the hole
I am capable alone
To dig my hole and bury
this wrack of life.

Then: At the beginning
my life grew upward
surrounded by a forest of kelp
Many strands
among the rocks
and the weight
was buoyant in the waves,

I came to dig through the wrack
The blades are the experiences
The stipes are life.
I came to see what was salvageable
and what pheumatocysts intact
I grip the shaft of my shovel
tense my muscle
scooping and anticipating
treasures buried.

The life I lived for:
the wrack and not the sand
pieces of vegetation, not the ocean.

The seaweed flies swarm
upward toward my face
disturbed in their feeding
attracted by the rotten smell of kelp
their maggots gorge
on gelatinous fiber
eating away at membranes
of memories stored in gas-
filled bladders.

I spread the kelp
on the dry sand shelf, nudging it,
But the shovel is not enough-
My hands need to feel
The putrescence of life.
it coats my hands
as the flies invade the nose,
the mouth,
the ears.

It makes a bed when spread to sea,
a mattress to bear my weight
green strands grow from my sides
Medusa hair of kelp.

It’s hard to see
where my life begins or ends
on the high tide line.
The ocean nips
at my ankles.

Between the wrack and rock
below, above the wave
the harvest continues.
The sand, the kelp,
the shovel
Begin again
in a Book of Death
where my name is written.