Life: A Multiplicity of Memories
This month, I’d like to invite you to write your own poem.
How can we do this? I’d like to propose that you write (typing or by hand) or dictate all that you remember. It can be based on anything that comes up for you. You could write from a few lines to ten pages. The idea is to have a structure starting each short sentence (at most one or two at a time) with “I remember” (1, 2). This playfulness may shed light to your individual self, to transcend everyday living through words (3). It is amazing to note that amnesiacs tend to be depressed for they lack a notion of identity of who they are; they lack a compilation of memories (4).
Don’t we all feel joy and sorrow? Meanwhile, the outer world sometimes can seem disorienting and chaotic. How do we manage chaos inside and outside of us, while our human nature seeks order through philosophies (moral values, ethics, equity), laws, and religion? One way is to bring together discordant notions through speaking, singing, reading and writing. We’ve all written or uttered (talking) a poem at one time or another, even in rhythms (e.g., Nobel prize recipient, Bob Dylan). From the disorder of emotions, we’re able to follow a structure, enabling us possibly to reach a sense of equilibrium, which we tend to seek daily, weekly, monthly, yearly.
Without further ado, I shall present below my version of “I remember”. You’ll see that these phrases are based on the perspective of a 50-something year old heterosexual female who lives in Kingston, Ontario, Canada. I hope this inspires you.
A few important points.
· Write or type or dictate as though no one will ever read it or see it other than you, not even your close companion or best friend (this ought to help you let go of your inhibitions; unless you’d like them to see. (The excerpt below is based on what I wrote over a couple of time frames, by no means all of it, there are some omitted parts.)
· You could record your memory gradually, such as writing a sentence a day or a few each day, putting them aside for many days (as I did), and then returning to it all when your heart calls (most of what I wrote below is from a month ago; I’ve given time for any strong stirrings to subside).
· Finally, I invite you to write about your experiences, drop me a note here (on the web site) or on social media (e.g., Instagram: @anajohnsonauthor), or send me an e-mail (apj.ajohnson@gmail.com). Did it feel sad or happy, or both, or neither? Any other thoughts or perceptions about your experiences? No need to share the content of what you wrote, although if you feel called, you could certainly do so.
Photo by A Johnson, Frontenac Park, Canada (during a 3.5-4 hour hike in Frontenac Park, I remembered lots)
I Remember
Part I.
I remember the siren, so loud, piercing. Could I pierce through it?
I remember the humming sound of the elevator in my work building. I was moving boxes of files and books into my new office for my new job 19 years ago.
I remember going up the elevator the other day. Smooth noise. It was renovated. I rarely took it.
I remember thinking it was good for my legs. Going up the three floors, to get some exercise, the elusive shapely legs, like the Amazon of my mind. In a verdant jungle.
I remember not eating much over many months, five years ago, to the point you could see defined bones on my sternum.
I remember thinking it was normal to see such protruding bones on my chest.
I remember soaking in the lukewarm bath water for hours hoping my pelvic prolapse would retract. What was 'a prolapse' anyway?
I remember procrastinating my weight training workout because it was so boring.
I remember writing, pencil to paper swooshing into intricate letters, hoping the movement and shapes would nourish me.
I remember the pact I made with myself, that I would not lift weights on tennis days.
I remember feeling a slight pain in my right foot upon awakening and in my right wrist at 7:41p.m..
I remember the melding of the metatarsal in my broken foot.
I remember the elongated nerve, projecting from my neck, through my vertebrae into my painful wrist.
I remember hearing the robins in my backyard, September sun rays beating onto my direct skin. No need for sunscreen in Kingston that time of year.
I remember turning my head right then left, resting from the tilted neurons in my brain, guiding my forefinger and thumb, moving the words forward onto the page.
I remember hearing the boat roar and the water splash from my son. Wakeboarding, sliding on the lake.
I remember the black dots. Flies. Noticeable. Landing on my white summer shirt and skin while I ran along my 40-minute route on the path behind my house.
I remember my throat closing. Suffocated by a strangling phantom. Not allowing my child’s voice to be heard.
I remember my throat contracting in my mother’s womb. Even before it inhaled its first oxygen strands.
I remembered an atom. Its nucleus. The sun surrounded by the 12 planets in the solar system.
I remember being in the centre. Surrounded by concentric circles.
I remember driving across the bridge, then stopped at the red traffic lights. I was in space. Observing. Floating on the periphery of utmost circles, as though we were all ants moving about within an insignificant existence.
I remember believing I became embodied as a little ant: “observing” was an experience. An experience could only be embodied.
I remember sitting on an ant’s nest wearing a bathing suite. I was five.
Part II.
I remember sitting on my white cushioned dining chair, writing “I remember” phrases, aware of my buttocks, the sturdy notebook under my moving hands on the table, different from last time when I didn't feel anything.
I remember the first time I wrote “I remember” phrases in my bedroom on one of the wicker chairs facing the auspicious direction of the month. I was writing on the greenish yellow cushion, resting on my knee.
I remember the cold wind blowing. I could hear it talking to me. Listening to the wind, the moon, the sun and its enigmatic shadows. Telling me what?
I remember seeing an image, reddish, expectantly rosie, pale at sunrise. An image reflected on the wall opposite my house, 30 feet away in my back yard. It was in the shape of an uterus.
I remember thinking the shadowy shape was in the Feng Shui's Southeast of my property, related to the pelvis.
I remember trying to decipher the incomprehensible message at dawn.
I remember writing a letter to the I Ching (4), placing it in an envelope. Lodging it behind the tempestuous ocean painting that hung on the Southeast wall of my living room, imploring it to help me heal.
I remember thinking, “Was the image, now quivering in my brain, I Ching’s enigmatic answer to my letter?”
I remember thinking the universe started talking to me. The medications were working, grateful to my conversations with the stars.
I remember loving to write, eager to put thoughts to paper, to eternity.
by A Johnson
References
(1) Inspired by Gregory Orr’s: Gregory Orr. A Primer for Poets and Readers of Poetry. W W Norton & Company. New York, NY. 2018.
(2) Inspired by Augustine of Hippo: Philosopher and theologian of the fourth Century who lived within the Roman civilization in North Africa, now known as Algeria:
(3) Joseph Campbell. The Power of Myth with Bill Moyers. Anchor Book, a Division of Random House Inc. NY, New York. 1991.
(4) Ilen RJ. Classic and recent advances in understanding amnesia. F1000Res. 2018: 16; 7: 331.
(5) The I Ching or Book of Changes is a text from over 3000 years ago that has had great influence in Chinese philosophical life, predecessor of Taoism and Confucianism. Based on six different combinations of the Yin and Yang, 64 hexagrams were created, believed to have been used to record worldly occurrences from human relationships (war, disappointment, rejoicing) to universal phenomena, including weather patterns, influencing the livelihood of individuals in antiquity for the plantation and growing of crops, for which human beings were dependent for sustenance and livelihood. Evidence of this has been found on inscriptions on bones and shells buried thousands of years ago, often recovered by ploughing framers. I Ching or Book of Changes. The Richard Wilhelm Translation. With a Foreword from CG Jung. Penguin Books. London, England. 1967.
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