Untitled, 2 July 2009

I have visions of my past, my childhood. Underneath the porch where our things were. I see colors and shapes and textures, bright and brilliant but impossible to commit to sober memory. I see shapes like clovers and flowers. Pedals of colored plastic. Rough and shiny smooth. I've seen patterns. Strings of these colored plastic visions.

I see the brown of the house across the street. The black and browns of the decaying siding. Its old, something so familiar which barely exists any longer, unleashed only in stupor.

I see green, a sick, pale, fluffy green of Henrietta's carpet. The mottled browns of cheap furniture. I feel home, young, innocent curious and safe.

I see orange and yellow. Weathered plastic punctuated by cold rusted steel.

These are toys. Memories of childhood. They are remembrances of feelings of home and warmth. Nostalgia. Nostalgia of a time long since forgotten. Memories of memories I never had. Memories that remain but wisps afloat in my head. Smokey and intangible but nonetheless haunting. Not haunting but enduring.

Thing, place and feel.

My eyes blank, the world slips away for an instant. Then, flash. Light and nostalgia swirling. At once diffuse and intense. Any sudden movement of mind sends it running. Sends it diminishing into the black. Where the world appears again. The now. My world of short memory occasionally accosted by visions of that un-remembered.

Now form begins again. My mind from darkness to fleshy form. From memory, from nostalgia to thing. Now it is pink and wrapped and moist and any other manner of physical, medical description which is recognized by all.

A short trip. It ends but it doesn't. Just a cover for reality. Or a peek behind the veil of "reality."

Indecipherable. I can agree on that. An un-understood understanding.

A literal blow of the mind. Nevertheless, I live in reconstitution.