S

8.7.23
Yes this is a corny song by some reckoning. I remember listening to it on the radio in the beat up green Nissan my mom used to drive us down in. In particular I remember the orange lamps that lined and loomed orange cones over the curves of the freeway, contrasting the moonlight. The big Y overtop desolate structures, suburbs, interstate. As the seasons came and went, the way they do viscerally when you are a child, and the music notes would play soundtrack to this. John Mayer, Maroon 5, Radiohead, etc.. Time endless, time immemorial. Reflexive. They have phrases for it now they call it a core memory or like a canon event I would think. For some reason I always felt these words were cruel descriptors. There was something for me much more bittersweet in sentiment, I think only things that are fiercely personal can have that quality, and so those things are private-feeling. Words like a canon event, or a core memory, I feel like these are communal words. (Well tbh they are TIKTOK words). You are so isolated when these things happen.
I suppose the intrigue comes from the fact we feel as if we share these experiences, hence the words and how they're shaped. But... in the private I think there may be hints of something only one can discover in private.
And where does the meaning from memories go, as Being elaborates through time. Of life as it goes on, new frames are introduced, goals to achieve, objects to desire. Are such memories rendered moot? I remember the dashboard of that car, it seems like ancient technology now. My mother, she was so much younger. In her I see every woman. I see age and decay take their course, just as I see a growing resillience she probably didn't know she had, a future converging to a fate but at the same time is opening into unimagined possibilites, "a garden bursting into life."
She was an immigrant. I think she was cleaning a department store at this time. She used to be a lawyer. In Colombia. She did it all really young. She'd read me books, we'd sit down and do homework together for hours. She was like 32, 33. Now through the camera-obscura I see backseat perspective in the Nissan. I see orange light color her face. Just as I learned to see her when she came, shattered and naive as a doe, saying she had cancer. That same fragility I'd see in our dog, moments into grasping hyperventilation, before I buried him in the rain. In December.
Have you ever held something in? Have you ever held it in so long it sort of makes you crazy? Then you say it out loud and people just sort of shrug. It just feels like nothing after that. I think this may be the value in the private. What if what you held in, was profound and important, what if being able to hold it in so long gave you such strength and energy you felt you could never give up, that nothing was out of reach, that you could see yourself dreaming up things and living them the next day. But the curse is, or may be, the catch is, you open up and it's all lost, to yourself. Interesting idea right?