… or how to recycle some of the good memories. Without destroying the beauty, without throwing in too much nostalgia, while preserving the sharp tang of regret, nonetheless.
Memory is photographic. Freeze frames, like a boxful of unsorted snapshots in a cardboard shoe box. You mean to set them out in an album, of course. In chronological order with dates, places, names, circumstances. “Lydia’s Wedding, Portland, May 16 1952”, for instance. But you never do.
The snapshot in my mind’s eye at the moment: the tip of my shoes on a footrest, aimed straight at a wall poster of a cartoon figure called Corto Maltese. Background: I’m writing in a notebook, and floating on a cloud of endorphin. Somebody loves me! Loves me for the one I really really really am!
Other snapshots from the same period: a woman on her bicycle, with a basket full of lilac on the rear luggage carrier. Rabbits in mid-scamper. Pear trees in full bloom – no, don’t cry. Preserve the sharp tang, you said, don’t turn maudlin.
Here now. Then there. Balancing, balancing. Eyes on the vanishing point, ahead.
“Living truthfully in imaginary circumstances.” – Sanford Meisner.