City of Legends / William F. DeVault

It has been more than three decades since I wrote those words, the title of this entry, "memory is the curse of those who care", embedded in the poem "Virgin’s Dawn".  And as time goes on, I appreciate more and more the wisdom of them.  I’ve never been a photo album kind of person (that and the fact that most of my childhood photos reside in the silt of the Gulf of Mexico) who needs his icons to recall his past.

Memory is not now.  It is not tomorrow.  It is a fading slate, worn down by the erosion of other memories and the moment that is upon us.  It is convenient in the abstract, for the most part, but not in the detail.

I treasure memory, I value it.  I even sometimes slip into it like a well-respected pair of socks or an anxious lover, but I never confuse it for the moment.  Or do I?

Many, many years ago I learned how to recouple to emotional states from the past, to relive them.  It is a nice tool to have if you are a writer.  I can take an experience from days, weeks, months, years ago and relive not necessarily the details of the moment, but the emotional topography of it.

Thus I can tell you what my first kiss was like.  Awkward, more than anything else, as I did not see it coming and it was over before I could express my appreciation for it.  The fact that there were eye witnesses in my best friend and older brother only made it more vivid and awkward.

I can tell you what that surge of adrenaline feels like when something darts towards you out of a bush at 5 o’clock in the morning, howling like death itself.  For the record, Sherlock, the basset hound, who was my nemesis as I worked my morning paper route in the hills around Morgantown, West Virginia, was just trying to do his job as a watchdog and at the same time scare aware the guy who delivered the paper that was used to discipline him.  He wasn’t that scary, but the sudden shift of gears when he would startle me, that was magic.  It feels like being punched in the chest at the same moment you are being electrocuted.

I recall, with pain and joy, every touch, real or virtual, by everyone I have ever allowed into my life.  But because I must be honest to the memory, the pain that is always a part of any birth, fall or rebirth is always there.  Beyond that, the knowledge that I will almost certainly never see again in this life so many people I have loved and cherished, that is a curse magnified by the love I felt (and feel, dammit) for them, and the vividness of the memories they inhabit.  Even as I write these words, the emotions overwhelm me with joy and cruelty.

Should I tell you the razor’s difference between Psyche and Brigit, in comparing their eyes when they smile?  Would you care to know what it feels like to be caught in a cataleptic state between sleep and waking, paralyzed and trapped with only your thoughts and fears?  Could I show you something so true you have to deny it, for fear that it would burn you like hot glassware from the oven, laying upon bare skin?  Would you want to experience, ten thousand times, the same pain of realizing that someone you trusted was lying to you and that to expose them would only cause them more pain?  I may not want to, but I do, every day.

It’s been a good run.  Damn, a great run.  I would never have imagined how far I would have flown when I first placed pen to page and words to tongue and kisses to memory.  I hope it continues for a few more years, at least.  Still a lot to be said, and to be said as well, or better, than I have said things so far.  Perhaps a few more kisses, basset hounds in the shrubs, dares to be won and battles to be fought, at least if not successfully, with zest and joy and passion.

More things to remember.  More fodder for the curse.  More memories.

Bring ‘em on.