So where do we find memory if it is lost in the memory banks of our mind? Can we bring back a memory, or do we ad-lib. Well there is nothing wrong with Poetic Memoirs that make up your life; sure the color of the bike isn't green, or was it? Perhaps those next door neighbors weren't that bad after all - they just did not want kids robbing grapes from their vines. What about those people at the store who stared at children, thinking every child steals a pack of gum. Remember the merry go round at Grade School when the boys got a hold of a few girls clinging for their life? Oh, nothing tops those old May Pole Days in the school yard when girls and boys had to participate together dancing around a pole with ribbon twisting and turning and twisting and turning. There was one day in Junior High I will never forget, seems like a few teachers never cared for me, one was the Gym Teacher who saw a ball come flying my way striking me center chest, she looked at me, told me to sit; I could hardly breathe. These days at least those involved in sports have instructors who take a moment, maybe pat someone on their back and tell them, your strong...
A few examples around the immediate neighborhood, but what about as we grew older, off to college, war, or an apartment of our own. I can think of so many stories to tell, and I knew one day I would start opening up and telling them, who cares at this point! But who really cares are the people reading your work, or listening to you read your own work. The emotions will show, on your face, in your voice, and on the listeners face. The audience reacts. When you take part in open mic and read something that strikes life, in a strangers life, you hit the right subject - you have connected.
Another great place for memories is tucked inside a cedar chest - I don't think this generation understands what was kept inside those huge wooden boxes lined in cedar. What about the box of love letters, come on, I have a box of letters my husband kept, and stored them away for safe keeping - great stuff. And besides his love letters, I have a huge box of love letters in their original envelopes from my mother to father and father to mother, during World War II. Now think about your parents and then finding a kiss from your mother in red lipstick at the end of a letter. I mean, could they have been that much in love? Hey, that was the generation where the words I love you were hard to say to their own children, and here I am yelling it off the porch as they drive away. But - their children never leave without a hug and I love you.
Let's go deeper, into the minds of someone who may have suffered severe depression following a long, extremely devestating event. Most of these individuals struggle to tell their stories until someone, perhaps at an open mic, breaks the ice. Then, the wheels start turning and the hands, paper and pen recall what the heart knew all the time. These are the powerful, and real stories of life. They may not be perfect, it's not stated a TRUE STORY but Poetic Memoir.
In my book I have a poetic memoir called the Cemetary Parking Lot. Strange name, okay I agree, but it was fitting. I talked about the car, everything I recalled about those old clunkers, and I knew behind me was a cemetary, and to my left, JM Fields, like a Kmart or Walmart. Everyone went there, it was the largest, and most inexpensive store in our neighborhood. It was the time when downtown was still expensive, and prices at those large stores were cheap. But a big thing, children were locked inside of cars, and waited, perhaps playing with paper dolls, a truck, or hiding beneath a blanket. More heart stabbing memories to those who may have been afraid of the dark.
Don't talk about dark, I had a fixture that lit my side of the bedroom I shared with my brother, it was God, and he did glow in the dark, but in one of my old memoirs, my brother had Pete The Cop. I recall how those reflections in time came flowing back to me.
And hiding, I hid from storms, hated storms and still hate storms. My children grew up in the basement on a blanket, with cookies, soda, all that bad stuff, and a radio turned up so loud no one knew a wicked storm was brewing. Once one of my friends came into the house, and looked for her daughter, she too was down in the basement playing camp. I have to say, she wasn't too happy. But - everyone was safe, and when we climbed those stairs golf ball and larger size hail coated the yard. I could go on about my fears, everyone has a fear of something, where or when it began who knows. But think about your real emotions at different times of your life. Think about how important it was to have a night light on, especially if you had to walk to the bathroom in the middle of the night.
So this, just another side of me - telling you to write, write about life, Poetry is Life, and we can preserve all that was into a well formated and deserved book, of Poetic Memoirs.
Until the next time. Have a great evening.