Birthday Month: My Cache Needs Dumped – Bite Me

img_3398My bookshelves are over-full. Sometimes I think my brain is, too. So when they say:

8. “At your age, you are allowed to forget some things!”

10. “Wow! You’re sharp as a tack.”

…”they” likely get a really evil look from me.  DO I forget things?  Who does not?  I memorize my passwords — and no, they are not four-digit sorts.  But my mind typically does not remember fiction book plots for more than a few months anymore.  It really IS as if my memory is becoming more selective – what matters and what is just “filler”?

Not every aging person is going to suffer dementia.  And age is not the only memory whacker.  Once, when I was 30, I underwent a particularly traumatic family event.  When I got back to work afterwards, I was humiliated to realize I had completely forgotten the combination to my work safe!  They had to drill it out and replace the mechanism!  Trauma can clear reams of mental data, let me tell you — and it doesn’t even take a physical knock to the head!  Even sleeplessness affects memory.  And too much sugar — you soda-guzzling fools!

I do allow myself to forget.  I have always, for instance, had trouble recalling the names of people I dislike.  If the ancient Egyptians could eradicate names of unpopular sorts from cities and sculptures ?  Why can’t I dis-engrave my memory on occasion?  I hope, oh-so-much, that after November 8th?  The news crews will STFU and I can work on forgetting Donald Trump, for example!

My mind – memory is going to be like my bookshelves: always busy and crowded, possibly dusty in corners, but never a peaceful empty room.  That’s why, back in 2001 – we built an “empty room”!  The Honey House IS my empty room, where I work to empty my over-filled mind.  But I keep the tacks sharp, for people who say nonsense like #8 and #10.  (Tomorrow, #9)

Gratitude 27 August

In my childhood, I remember many yards in various states of decrepitude. I remember hours of back-breaking labor of my own to transform such yards into something better — on my mother’s orders. I also recall the beauty of success.

Blue morningWe occasionally had flowers! Imagine.  A great favorite of mine was the morning glory in that marvelous sky blue shade.  So, in this yard  – my yard – where work is done only at my self-command?  I have planted these seeds almost every year.  And despaired.  The seeds have come up and blossomed only twice in all those years!

But I am grateful that this IS one of those years!  The vine is not thriving, it is very slow growing.  But it is blossoming and the color is bliss to my eyes!

Poetry Month – Twenty-One – Home Is

RussiansMy house is a mine (field?) of memories,

The recycling basket is twenty years old,

Yule-tide gift from a vanished friend;

The one before it, finally bottom-busted?

Thirty years old and now in the garden –

Nest for a tender jasmine vine.

Photos on the walls displaying time and travel,

Four feral felines on a tire swing,

Escaping January’s frozen iron earth.

coffee goldTeacups, matrushka dolls, and pewter bells,

Marble miniature Athena, kachinas, and bears,

Papyrus Aset, wolverine totem, Venetian masks,

The hand-made pillow a rune-spell in stitch,

Toys of yore — dolls, tops, marble-games,

Shining bottles in a suitcase, easy relief,

Glasses but a step away to reach,

ToysAll time at my command where e’er my eye falls,

Footstep stained rug – one night’s blood and mud,

Umbrellas of dust that once knew rain,

Antique upholstery on the dog’s bed,

Brazen candlesticks and glass bottles,

Waiting for magic’s dance in the night,

suitcase barIron dragons and doors full of ravens,

Coat-rack with tits holding bath towels,

Crocks for pickles, vinegar, and kraut,

Enough iron skillets to feed a small army,

Eight kinds of wine glasses – for shame!

Louvered doors and racks of mead,

Full carboys aging and feather beds,

Stained glass, church-liberated now,

glass door shutCuckoo clocks with dancers and song,

Military medals framed in (guilt?) gilt,

Blue-white willow ware dishes,

A sea-lord hanging upon the wall,

All shining in silence of early morn,

All waiting in welcome — of whom?

Time glides my polished floors,

Singing of things past that come again,

2016-03-24_16483 1Doors closed, but ever opening,

Things to enwrap and enrapture await,

“Coding” of the age pre-digital saying,

Here is home, here is welcome!

Learning ever that room will be made,

Life’s dance is always full carded,

Something to catch any eye,

Something to charm, enchant, lure and love each guest.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Poetry Month – Eleven

 

LiveAt the ending, what really remains?

A plot, a stone, an urn, a few photographs?

What memory will I be when I am no more alive?

Now, more life behind me than before me,

The question is more live than before,

I find myself posing, framing moments –

Oh, how vain as Friend Night gathers!

Will he recall my tattoo’d shoulder thus bared?

Did his memory “snap” my hair spread across the pillow?

I am a small woman, I’ve led a small life…

No monuments for me unless of my making?

 

But I am content with that, no mistake,

I once was not, but now I am at peace,

My “raindrop” has had instants of “sparkle”,

Tis sufficient if he knows I loved with intent,

Tis sufficient if my children recall a lullaby sung,

A joke shared in laughter or tears dried,

Sufficient, if friends remember a warning given,

A book gifted, a story revealed, an effort made,

Fame is fickle and often defiling,

It warps reality out of shape for approval,

Better quiet truths unyielding for me.

 

They say “What is remembered, lives.”

Is that true, and is it a good?

We remember wars – and refight them ever,

We remember hurts – and revenge them often,

I’d sooner be forgotten than live that zombie life!

The goods that we recall, we seem rarely to repeat,

Only the burr ‘neath our saddle gets attention,

Yet, I think, “Did he see my hair that day?”

Or, “Oh, how the wind caught my skirts prettily!”

Thus, perhaps, feels the rose before the final dissolution?

So, let me fade with grace….a fall of petals?