"We all begin as a dot. A speck becomes a person. Still maybe we acquire glimmers. Which are the reverse of triggers. Maybe we acquire glimmers and triggers. Maybe we try to share the glimmers and tackle the triggers. Maybe we can. Maybe we can’t."
In our family of survivors, there are lost histories. And, the small fragments we know lead us to weave fantastical stories between clues, each generation making knew sense of them. Our remembrances become living organisms, and there is only one child chosen to bear the mantle of carrying it forward.
Another piece that blows my mind. All I can do is stare into my computer with my brain gllitching and feel grateful that I have been guided. Then I go back and read again.
I am the only one in my biological family left alive. When I have a memory, I have no one to with whom to check it. I write it down and try to figure out the approximate date or my age at the time. I wish I had recorded my parents' voices talking about their childhoods. Now just the questions remain. Did great aunt Carrie really drink her own urine? Did great aunt Sadie actually drink the water she soaked her dentures in? Did aunt Irma really die of exposure when she stumbled drunk outside in a snowstorm to smoke a cigarette? Did dad really have to bury the placenta after his 15-year-old sister gave birth to an illegitimate baby on the kitchen table? Those memories are the stuff of nightmares.
So called “primitive” societies often have rich origin stories. It seems that “advanced” societies often lack coherent ones. Or a hodgepodge of doctrinal ones. Without an origin story are we more like single cell creatures bound to Petri dishes not of our making? Feel free to develop your own rich origin story. It could bring you peace and comfort.
Your entry today makes me want to write something perfect to you.....but here I am with speechless gratitude that you do write and I am allowed entry to your thoughts. Thank you.
My parents shared lots of stories of events that occurred before I was born. Only years later did I begin to wonder whether the stories were true. It was true that the most important issues of the then present were never discussed.
Most family-memory writing operates on the assumption that there's a record to be sifted. This one operates on the assumption that there's an absence to be reconstructed, which is a different and lonelier project.
Thank you for your words. They mean a lot to me.
I am again deeply honored by your words. Thank you.
"We all begin as a dot. A speck becomes a person. Still maybe we acquire glimmers. Which are the reverse of triggers. Maybe we acquire glimmers and triggers. Maybe we try to share the glimmers and tackle the triggers. Maybe we can. Maybe we can’t."
No one writes like you, Judith.
No one.
Deep bow. To you and to Joyce.
In our family of survivors, there are lost histories. And, the small fragments we know lead us to weave fantastical stories between clues, each generation making knew sense of them. Our remembrances become living organisms, and there is only one child chosen to bear the mantle of carrying it forward.
Thank you. Deep bow.
"You can't even eat a bowl of cereal without memory"... beautiful. We cannot live without memory.
Thank you. I am grateful for your words.
Another piece that blows my mind. All I can do is stare into my computer with my brain gllitching and feel grateful that I have been guided. Then I go back and read again.
I am deeply grateful for your words. Thank you.
I am the only one in my biological family left alive. When I have a memory, I have no one to with whom to check it. I write it down and try to figure out the approximate date or my age at the time. I wish I had recorded my parents' voices talking about their childhoods. Now just the questions remain. Did great aunt Carrie really drink her own urine? Did great aunt Sadie actually drink the water she soaked her dentures in? Did aunt Irma really die of exposure when she stumbled drunk outside in a snowstorm to smoke a cigarette? Did dad really have to bury the placenta after his 15-year-old sister gave birth to an illegitimate baby on the kitchen table? Those memories are the stuff of nightmares.
Thank you for sharing your words.
Beautiful
Thank you
Anne Lewis
New to you
Thank you for your words. And your readership.
So called “primitive” societies often have rich origin stories. It seems that “advanced” societies often lack coherent ones. Or a hodgepodge of doctrinal ones. Without an origin story are we more like single cell creatures bound to Petri dishes not of our making? Feel free to develop your own rich origin story. It could bring you peace and comfort.
Your entry today makes me want to write something perfect to you.....but here I am with speechless gratitude that you do write and I am allowed entry to your thoughts. Thank you.
My parents shared lots of stories of events that occurred before I was born. Only years later did I begin to wonder whether the stories were true. It was true that the most important issues of the then present were never discussed.
Most family-memory writing operates on the assumption that there's a record to be sifted. This one operates on the assumption that there's an absence to be reconstructed, which is a different and lonelier project.
Not much of a record to shift. Thank you for staying with me here.
Boost the glimmers and ditch the triggers. While your former professors often falter, your birds and artwork never fail.
Neither does her hauntingly beautiful prose. J is a national treasure.
Deeply grateful to you. Thank you.
Thank you.
gorgeous gorgeous gorgeous
Thank you.
Your art is particularly beautiful this time. Not that the words aren't.
Thank you always. Deep bow.
“she had asphalt and pigeons. A glimpse of blue through tenements.” Sure do love this.
I am honored by your words. Thank you.