memory, a clip

I wanted to share this clip as I find it very touching and also thought provoking. It's a documentary about living with Alzheimer; in this particular clip the poet Edwin Honig is being interviewed by Alan Berliner.
Memory is such a complex subject and the loss of it transforms a person. At times, in life, however, it's important to forget as to move on, break the chains of enslavement that particular moments in our lives force upon us. At the same time, unwillful forgetfulness, through diseases such as Alzheimer, can be debilitating on the subject and those surrounding it.
All in all, I find this clip as a reminder to remember to live, to remember those around us, "to remember how to forget."



http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VaQ9K6Yd6So

memories

have you ever swam to the bottom of a memory?
an unravelling song of sadness and sinking scripts amid seaweed
a scene of a hand slipping, struggling to find some solace
stones sliding down the spines of secret lovers
a cleansing of wounds washed ashore
summer brush-strokes on a wooden canoe under sparkling stars
a smiling figure swaying silently -– someone, somewhere that meant something
silver silhouettes sympathizing with dying souls

But, perhaps some memories are bottomless:
sudden flashes with no end

beyond me

From the coffin-like basement, my imagination rises above the pale off-white walls, black rain and dying grey clouds and enters your mind. I keep going, brushing against history, intruding, walking past fallen statues and half-ripped pages, until I reach your soul—an enclosed path. In my thoughts you are saying a prayer and I the object of your prayer. Sweet, saccharine, comforting. The way you utter my name, slowly the letters dancing between your lips before they flow, putting me at peace. A smile. I chart your pronunciation and it seems so familiar, alive, eternal. Pause.

No sunlight. Your voice begins to scatter, break, split— a rupture. Backfire. Wildfire. Now you’re speaking a different language, spitting discordant words, acidic letters down my imagination—a blank void develops and memories rush in. I can’t control your speech; it slithers in different directions, eventually the weight of your tongue insurmountable against my desires, my naivety, my hopes. All false. This is real. Irrevocable. With the mask withdrawn, you begin cursing me, your words soaking every inch of my flesh. This performance leaves me scattered. I’m back in my basement with my imagination on fire, my body pale, my eyes darkening, my soul dying. It burns.

fall memories

Staring at the piles of fallen, forlorn, ash-stricken leaves, beyond the pale walls of my room, it becomes difficult not to turn to the rigmarole of melancholic thoughts of our past living(s). These thoughts cautiously slither and slide their way, time-travelling into my present reflections: To think that without this memory I have nothing, but because of this memory I am nothing.

But, what if by a slight, thin chance this memory was fabricated—my imagination unscrupulously playing cruel tricks to pass the time?

Yet, whether this memory belongs to something real beyond my imaginary landscape, it becomes real nonetheless. It has penetrated its way into my very being: spreading over my mind and body; stretching over mornings and nights; crawling into my veins; stamping my soul with a lucid, pristine, immortal memory.