Tuesday, February 17, 2009

battles can be lost but the war may yet be won

Truth and the absence of truth...No, indeed the truth has found an unusual weaponry. The muddled but beautifully crafted panoply, heavily resting on the shoulders and behind the knees: these forced memories which drift into grey, or move further from my mind's eye, into images like television screens viewed through frosted glass.

Forcing memories for the sake of it may well prove detrimental to the general health of this man. If I concentrate...My mother, sister and I, in the kitchen, making a reicipie from a children's book, which didn't explain how to save food if the contents of a mixing bowl curdled...What an otherwise inconsequential memory to save, without an introduction or conclusion; just a scene, partly frozen, moving as though the reel is damaged, jarring against its machinery.

Further forward, then, to a corridor in school. Evocative recollection of the windows, designed so as to look like graph paper had been traced upon each. Miss Fraser critisicing my decision (conscious, I suppose now) to hide my hymn book up my trouser leg. Again the days and months have stolen the context, leaving only the frozen image of her face, maybe the floor as my eyes rested away from the glare: the brown floor, so cold for stocking feet.

Drink and drugs have smothered the memory, in a way perhaps denied by campaigners who wish all drugs to be free from scientific claims of long-term problems. Ice-cream scoops of memory have left dark holes where diary pages and captured photographs used to reside. Those skies which seem so much more perfect, still, blue, to these tired eyes, accustomed to the grey between the start and end of each working day.

Following the darker silences of argument I wonder if the use of old escape plans are misunderstood due to their out-dated, maybe even childish, outward appearance can only be misinterpreted. Footsteps towards the conclusions not matching the evidence. But I cannot judge. My glasshouse must not be littered by stones (and there are no signs in the desert which say...no, sorry, you probably already know this one...)