Here’s a piece from one of my journals–journals are primary research materials for this memoir, Written on the Reverse. Word count forbids putting everything in.
The entry is from January, 1995, when I’d left Santa Fe for a week, after two semesters at St. John’s College and abstract philosophical thinking, one might say in reaction to, and drove south to El Paso, Texas, parked the car in a grocery store parking lot, walked across the bridge into Mexico, took a bus south to ocean, and spent five days in Topolobampo, Sinaloa as the ferry came and went to La Paz. The writing is on Time, a topic as relevant today as it was in 1995.
We could title it “Time and Memory.”
A Daemon lives in my soul, crackles and crunches on pieces of time left behind i old books and old journals. Crunching years, voracious, laughing gleefully, he opens his mouth, swallows seconds, minutes, hours. I am not watching, forget to guard, my meandering thoughts wander elsewhere.
He waits, smacks his lips, waits for inattention, for the moments I gaze out the window. He creeps upon my reverie, glomp, snap, crackle, and gone.
Attention or inattention, he dines none the less–dines on great globs of forgetfulness or delicate smidges of used up moments.
Reaching into the white wool snowdrifts of memory, I find no slipper belonging to Mr. Prothero. Ha! laughs the daemon deep within. You thought there be messages worth keeping? You thought in that fresh fallen moment of time, there would be (please one!) worth saving?
There is! There is! I shout back defiant. There are gems, there are moments you don’t have! And I open my hand to display what I’ve found, finding banana peels and old coffee grounds.