i am standing in the middle of this point in time. & if you’ve ever been driving in the plains states (let’s say) on roads off the main highways, you will instantly understand what i mean by being in the middle of this point in time. it is the point where the horizon line is so low & so far away no matter which way you turn that it’s quite possible that time stops. you can see that the clouds (if there are any) are moving across the sky, but they do not represent the motion of time, they just are.
what has brought me to this point in time? the abrupt introduction of the present into my memories. as innocent as it may have been, it’s pushed me off course & i’m unable to gather myself together & drive back into the past (which is where i would like to be right now.)
it has diminished the size of the original memory & has saddened it even further than it was already (if that is possible, which i think it is; like wet cardboard.) you have your childish memories & let’s say you’ve been away from wherever they may have taken place for many years. on your return, the first thing you notice, as an adult now, is how small everything seems. where once it was grand & elegant & XX, it is now small & worn & sized for those under 6 (if even.)
& it’s not only the size that’s has changed, it is also the light. where it was once sun-bathed, it is now cloudy & dark (sinister in its change of weather.) & although the sun of the past is the sun of today; the fact remains that i was using the old sun to reveal what little i could remember (not the facts necessarily, but the feelings, the emotions, the intent.)
i feel some remorse. it’s possible that i may have snapped at this interloper (in writing; terse, impersonal, dismissive,) who has, unbidden, interjected today into my past. i believe, though, that by writing about it, there is the outside chance that i’ll be able to look at as if i were at a crossroads on a gravel road in the great plains, the snort of cow shit fresh in my nostrils (possibly,) the wind (john cage silence) a pumice to my skin, peeling back the present & revealing the past once again (as it was? maybe not. but possibly this new view will–we’ve decided to turn to the left at the crossroads, had you not surmised that by now–this new view will bring with it a fresh jolt of memory.)
in the intervening moments between writing & waking, nothing has changed.