.
Toward the end of a life activity ceases and reflection takes over. This is what is meant by dwelling in the past. This sort of retrospective existence, however, might be more accurately described as dwelling in an illusion.
All memories are empty. Yes, a memory is an empty vessel. One wishes to believe it is filled up with something that once happened. But how is one to go about finding that thing, if it ever existed. Nothing is more elusive.
Mother's face is no longer mother's face.
A feeling, a tone, a gesture, lost upon uncorking.
Whatever may have been in the bottle disappears upon contact with the atmosphere of reality.
Imagine a glass collecting vial containing a lovely chloroformed specimen, kept in a drawer. It is a particularly treasured specimen. One takes pleasure in imagining the exquisite wing markings. It is a shock to open the drawer, remove the bottle and find nothing in it. The past is like that. Make up as many stories about it as you wish. Those narratives are mere concepts, populated with vanished ephemerae. One would like to think they were beautiful, but perhaps they never really had any substance, memory has merely invented them.
Everyone has a drawer full of these empty bottles. No one can look into anyone else's bottle. If you were to ask someone a question about their past experiences, about what the past was actually like, they might say, Well, if I had time to look into that, perhaps I might be able to tell you; but right at the moment I do not.
The house of the mind is built of memories. It is an empty house. Late at night one realizes this. Now all the memories have dissolved. It is an empty house. It offers no shelter. Mother will not stop at the door to say good night.
All memories are empty. Yes, a memory is an empty vessel. One wishes to believe it is filled up with something that once happened. But how is one to go about finding that thing, if it ever existed. Nothing is more elusive.
Mother's face is no longer mother's face.
A feeling, a tone, a gesture, lost upon uncorking.
Whatever may have been in the bottle disappears upon contact with the atmosphere of reality.
Imagine a glass collecting vial containing a lovely chloroformed specimen, kept in a drawer. It is a particularly treasured specimen. One takes pleasure in imagining the exquisite wing markings. It is a shock to open the drawer, remove the bottle and find nothing in it. The past is like that. Make up as many stories about it as you wish. Those narratives are mere concepts, populated with vanished ephemerae. One would like to think they were beautiful, but perhaps they never really had any substance, memory has merely invented them.
Everyone has a drawer full of these empty bottles. No one can look into anyone else's bottle. If you were to ask someone a question about their past experiences, about what the past was actually like, they might say, Well, if I had time to look into that, perhaps I might be able to tell you; but right at the moment I do not.
The house of the mind is built of memories. It is an empty house. Late at night one realizes this. Now all the memories have dissolved. It is an empty house. It offers no shelter. Mother will not stop at the door to say good night.
Spider Lily (Lycoris) and butterfly Papilio xuthus (Asian swallowtail): photo by Autumn Snake, 2007
Codd bottle: photo by Moriori, 2006
Codd bottle: photo by Moriori, 2006
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