Monday, March 27, 2017

Indelible Ink

Or... The Persistence of Memory?

Had Dali, in his famous 1931 painting, decided on a portrayal of the inside of my head, it would most likely have been no less a wasteland, but less desolate.  It may have been more closed in, and populated by not only more clocks but the clocks would have been truer to form and not as fluid or  melted.  That's the curse I'm talking about here.  This portrayal may have been no more linear, as my own memory has never been linear, but perhaps tight clusters perfectly round, perfectly formed watch faces, like shells littering the sand. Each shell in perfect condition, no more worn or damaged than it had been when it was first washed up on that shore, never picked at by gulls or terns or crabs.  Perfectly shiny.  Original condition.

Fuck it even.  Skip Dali and go straight to the display case at the watch counter at the jewelers.  There you go.  There you have it.

An exacting memory is the very last thing you want when you're weighted with shame and guilt, or even simply conflicted or sorrowed about your past.  Give me fading.  Give me wear and tear.  Give me scratches and nicks and dents and tarnishing, or just pull the gates down on the shop altogether and let no one in.  Total recall is only an asset if you're trying to recreate crime scenes.

Crime scenes...

Ooooh, they always return to the scene of the crime, Dick Tracy.

It's not a question so much of intentionally revisiting crime scenes as the crime scenes revisiting me.

(TBC)


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