Memory, the Monster
Are you a friend or foe to memory or remembering?
Today it dawned on me that memory, or the act of remembering, can be its own sort of monster, depending on the time of day or year or mood it’s conjured.
I had just finished the chapter on memory in The Book of Alchemy (our January Egalitarian Book Club pick) a little bit ago, you see, and was thoroughly disappointed by the way it had made me feel sort of … meh. Which had absolutely nothing to do with the book mind you, but everything to do with me and my memories, or how I decided to conjure them today.
Or perhaps it was due to the cold winter morning surrounding me outside my windows? Or the entire cup of coffee I had roiling through my veins, which I had downed in five minutes flat? Or how the lighting around me was blurring my vision, and what I was reading and writing along with it?
Regardless of the reason, I simply could not conjure any happy memories in my mind this morning, as my cat circled my chair, unable to settle in my lap as he usually does. Even he was upset by how I was attempting to conjure my memories it seems.
Instead of inspiring serious reflection or contentment, the word prompts and writing prompts I came across reminded me of nothing but loss and tragedy. No matter how hard I tried to conjure something, anything else, I could only remember fractured and scattered moments from my childhood. Those moments when I was deeply afraid. And not the ‘there is a monster living in my closet’ kind of afraid, but the ‘there is a monster living in my house’ kind of afraid.
And before I knew it or could stop it, those fractured and scattered moments and memories became mixed with the images of the ocean I was reading about in the book that were based on someone else’s memories. But the ocean had always been a safe place for me to go when I got older, much older, and far away from the monster in my memories, so I didn’t like the feelings that hodge podge of memories evoked.
I had never been scared of the ocean or swimming when I was a child. Never. In fact, it was quite the opposite. The ocean always reminded me of endless options and a future full of possibilities I could get to, if only I could swim fast and long enough to reach them.
Though I grew up in Florida, we hardly ever went to the beach, you see. There were never enough hours in the day, gas money, umbrellas, clean coolers, or adults with enough energy to take me. It was oddly always seen as a chore, as a drag, by most of the people in my life.
So, when I got older and was still living in Florida, I would go to the beach any and every time I got, mostly because I could, to make up for all the times I had missed out on growing up. Sure, it was mostly at night and I was, more often than not, all alone. But still, especially then, the ocean always meant freedom to me.
The sound of mild waves crashing against the backdrop of stars in the midnight blue sky while my toes cinch the sand is my version of safety, enduring peace, and endless possibilities. It’s how and where I learned not to be afraid to be alone, all alone. Surrounded by the endlessness of a darkened shore free of annoying tourists who feed seagulls and the duties of living another day, I learned to live my fullest, best imagined life.
Unlike most children, I always loved the quiet peace that accompanied the dark, because that’s when all the monsters were fast asleep. Because even monsters need to rest, to recharge, and forget all their monstrous deeds, so they can get up and go on being monsters the next day.
This is what I realized today: The trouble with trying to conjure old memories is that you never ultimately know what type of spell you’re casting and how it will manifest. Will you get a magic moment or a poisonous tincture in the end?
What’s one of your favorite memories? I could use the emotional boost on a cold winter day like today, if you’d be kind enough to share?
© This work is not available for artificial intelligence (AI) training. All Rights Reserved by K.E. Creighton; Creighton’s Compositions LLC.
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