Attempted poetry, again

Future Storms

It is when I think

of past storms and of laughter

that my eyes form tears.

Those wet eyes and cheeks

come also when I

think of past become future.

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The Nose Knows

The phrase “no one knows what the Nose knows” has a bit of history in my family and is a phrase that is probably best forgotten.  However, today as I was out walking, I saw something that brought the phrase to mind.  So, apologies to the old Nose, here is the story–today’s version of what the Nose knows.

So here comes this gorgeous black and white mid-size dog, walking proudly down the sidewalk, with her human in tow.  The dog held her head high and sniffed the air to be sure all was well as she led her butler down the road (yes, I know this was not a cat, but I think dogs have butlers too).  She was clearly the Nose, and rather proud of it.  People moved out of her way as she strutted along confident that she had everything under control.  The Nose knew exactly who she was and where she was going.  It was truly a sight to behold.

So pardon me, my family, but the Nose today brought smiles and fond remembrance of phrases gone by.

Time, Re-bottled

Thinking again about time.  And memories.  I know the two are linked (see Time, in a Bottle), and it seems time to revisit that link.  Start with the idea that there is no Time.  None.  Then, who am I?  Where am I?  Am I in a when?  If so, how are whens formed?  My theory:  whens are time.  And they are created by my remembering something that happened to me.  Remember enough whens, and you have my time.

Time, then, is personal.  Each of us remembers something, creating a when and putting it in a bottle.  Stack those bottles and you have your time.  My time is not your time, not at all.  But, there may be memories of shared whens, and it might feel like we share time too.  But all we share is one bottle, one memory, when our personal times came together.  Even though there may be more than that one bottle, more whens in which we shared a moment and created a memory, still, my time is mine and yours is yours.

There may be whens  we would like to share with another person.  To create such a plan requires some common construct of “time”, so we can say, “meet me at the corner tomorrow at ten”.  We have to have a shared idea of what “ten” is for that to work.  So, we humans have constructed an elaborate structure that we have agreed to use so that we can create shared memories.  These can then be bottled and so become personal time.

This theory may explain why time seems to slow down and speed up.  The more bottles of memory I save, the slower my time.  We can choose what we want to remember, and that choice can be made at any point in my personal time–immediately and forever, or forgotten until remembered in some future when.

The important thing is that my whens are mine.  Time is personal.  But I can choose to sometimes place my time within that superstructure that allows us to share a when and hence a memory.

And no, I have not been drinking.

Spirits

So last night, I watched the movie  “The House of the Spirits” (based on Isabelle Allende’s book).  And today, a ghost spoke to me.  Perhaps there is a connection?

I was napping a bit this afternoon, and I woke to a very familiar voice telling me that I am sleeping too much.  I replied that it is just because I am so tired.  As I awoke, I felt joy, because I had thought I had forgotten that voice, would never hear it again, yet there it was admonishing me (with a smile that I could also hear) for wasting my day in sleep.  Thank you, ghost, for giving me back that wonderful voice!

When next I need  it, I shall watch that movie again.

Why I Never Had a Boyfriend.

So the other day, I walked into my local and was greeted with a song.  An extremely awful song.  A song I had hoped never to have to hear again, ever.  I almost turned around and walked out, but I needed my morning cuppa, so I asked never to have to hear them singing that song again.  They stopped, I sipped, life went on.  Except.

The hateful song took me WAY back, to my almost forgotten early teen years.  I so very badly wanted to have a boyfriend.  All the other girls had boyfriends, I was certain.  Every girl except me had a boyfriend.  Life was simply not fair.  I thought about the situation almost constantly and finally came to a conclusion about why I did not have that boyfriend.  It had to be because there was no beautiful song about a girl with my name.  All the other girl’s names were in lovely songs, romantic songs, songs that would make any boy want to be those girls’ boyfriends.  But no song with my name.  I longed for such a song, dreamed about how fine life would be when my song had been written and was on the radio for all the boys to hear.

Well.  Some wishes should just never come true.  A song was written about a girl with my name.  It was awful.  Horrible.  The most terrible song ever sung.  I cringed when I heard it and wanted to change my name.

How could any boy dream about me after hearing “my” song?  It went:  Oh Sandy, woe woe woe woe, Saaaaaandy.  Come on.  All the boys ran away from me, and I could not blame them. I could not lift my head up.

So now you know why I never had a boyfriend.  I told the folks at my local if I ever heard them sing that song again, I would never ever return.  So far so good.  No woe.