Find the rest of the story in this album.

It didn't make sense to me, but then again I'd always had some concept of memories. I had never known anyone who didn't understand the concept, so I suppose I'd just taken it for granted. I never even thought about how to define what a memory is. It's one of those things that I never had to learn. It was a simple fact of life, it was just part of who I was, for as long as I had any concept at all of who I was. So I had no idea how to proceed when I arrived at this place where nobody had ever even heard of a memory, much less had one. It didn't seem possible, and yet at the same time I had no choice but to accept the fact that in this city and at this time I was the only person with a memory.

---

More from me on this story later, you should write some on it too if you take a notion.  This'll also be part of a collaboration I'm starting soon....

 

A shadow embarks bearing a heavy load
And makes his way down the Forgetful Road.

This creature is a stranger, but it seems that all who are seen traveling this road are strangers.  He has no bags, no pack, his arms are empty.  But he bears a heavy burden all the same.  You can see it in his stride, his posture, his sullen appearance.  This shadow chose this road over every other remaining option.  A thousand wrong turns brought him here.  A thousand more turns lay directly ahead.

A shadow embarks bearing a heavy load
And makes his way down the Forgetful Road.

From this point forward, every fork in the road is a penance.  Every crossroad is a chance to escape.  Every decision made is an opportunity to be unburdened of the consequences of a decision made before he reached this road.  When the burden is dropped the unwanted memory is dissipated.  The road continues to wind deeper into the darkness ahead.  Though there are many branches, all branches still belong to this one road.

A shadow embarks bearing a heavy load
And makes his way down the Forgetful Road.

As the shadow makes his way further down the road the decisions come easier, he makes them a little quicker.  Though the darkness grows deeper and deeper and the road descends lower and lower, the shadow seems more lively.  Too many memories are like a death sentence for the shadows.  A shadow filled with memories runs the risk of becoming material, of taking on substance, of taking on mass.  He cannot imagine what he might become if this happened, he doesn't even want to think about what might become of him.  He decides to play it safe and just take a trip down the Forgetful Road.

A shadow embarks bearing a heavy load
And makes his way down the Forgetful Road.
-----

Having recently been asked in a fairly public forum when I'm going to write something for the Shadow Caste collaboration, it got me thinking about how I could "fit in there".  Attilee just asked a couple of days ago for some world building, and that got me thinking some more.  This might fall into the category of world building, for at least one small part of the shadow world.  It might be an idea that needs some more development, if it inspries any ideas.  It feels to me like it's just the start of an idea.

I'm not a big fan of the ending for this one.  Has anyone got any bright ideas?

---

"Jamie."
"..."
"Jaaamiiie."
"..."
"Jaaaaaaamiiiiiiie."
"Come on, Jamie.  Keep it together, man.  Just keep your head down for two more hours, then you can get out of here, go home, make a nice cup of tea, and then maybe you can think about cracking up in the privacy and comfort of your own home."
"Jaaamiiie."
"What, Uncle Andy?  What do you want?"
"Jamie, that's no way to talk to your dead uncle."
"I'm... I apologize, Uncle Andy.  I shouldn't have snapped at you like that."
"Jamie."
"What?"
"How's that Cobb salad treating you, Jamie?"
"This can't be happening right now."
"What's that, Jamie?"
"Uncle Andy, I need to... I'm very busy with work right now.  I have a 4:00 deadline, and I have to... I just need to work on this right now."
"Jamie."
"Yeah?"
"I was right about that Cobb salad wasn't I, Jamie?"
"Ohhhh...."
"Jamie."
"Yeah?"
"You should have ordered the taco surprise, shouldn't you Jamie?"
"Come on, man.  Just two more hours."
"The taco surprise rules, Jamie.  The Cobb salad sucks."
"OK."
"OK what, Jamie?"
"OK, I should have had the taco surprise for lunch."
"Damn straight you should have had the taco surprise, Jamie."
"The Cobb salad was a mistake.  Are you happy now, Uncle Andy?"
"There's no use crying over spilled milk, Jamie."
"Huh?"
"It's time to let go of that horrible mistake you made at lunch, Jamie, and get on with your life."
"But you just said..."
"I didn't say anything, Jamie.  I died seven years ago in a fiery lollipop factory explosion.  Don't you remember that, Jamie?"
"I do, Uncle Andy.  I remember that very well."
"Do you further remember how I came to be in the employ of that lollipop factory, Jamie?"
"Yes Uncle Andy, I remember that I was the one who convinced you to take that job at the lollipop factory."
"That's right, Jamie. I was poised to start my job at that shiny new hand grenade factory right across the street. But you would have none of that, would you Jamie? No, you were adamant that the hand grenade factory was far too dangerous a place for your beloved Uncle Andy, weren't you Jamie?"
"But Uncle Andy, I was so horrified at the thought of you working every day at that awful factory, constantly surrounded by all of those hand grenades."
"And look where it got me, Jamie! Look at what became of the man who turned down the hand grenade factory for that job at the lollipop factory! Dead at the age of 51. Do you know who isn't dead, Jamie?"
"I know, Uncle Andy.  Nobody at the hand grenade factory has ever died on the job."
"It's one of the safest places in the world, Jamie! You could run an orphanage in that factory, and distribute kittens to all of the orphans, give each orphan as many kittens as he can stuff in his grubby little pockets, and the orphans and their many kittens would dance in the streets every day, rejoicing because of how happy they are to live in a place as wonderful and safe as that damn hand grenade factory."
"I'm sorry, Uncle Andy. I never wanted you to be killed in a fiery lollipop factory explosion."
"Don't apologize to me, Jamie. Apologize to all of those orphans who don't get to live in that bastion of sunshine and smiles that is the hand grenade factory."
"You... you're not making any sense, Uncle Andy."
"Of course I'm not making any sense, Jamie! I'm a guilt-induced hallucination who takes the ghostly form of your beloved dead uncle to hurl insults at you as you slip slowly into madness."
"Yeah... yeah I know you are, Uncle Andy."
"Jamie."
"Yes Uncle Andy?"
"Would you like a lollipop?"
"No Uncle Andy, I don't really enjoy lollipops anymore."
"You know Jamie, lollipops are a lot like kittens: you're never really too old for either one of them."
"I know, Uncle Andy.  You know, I might like to have a kitten."
"Then what do you say we stop talking to illusory relatives and make our way down to the good old hand grenade factory.  I hear that the view there is spectacular around this time of year."

My love is the road, and the road leads me here
I am the road paved flat and stretched out tight across this universe
This city is the road knotted up and spinning and growing and boiling over and pouring into our eyes and our ears and our hurrying feet and your embracing arms and my heart
I remember you, you are the road I've never seen
All of you are the road and the crossing and the precious flickering jewel and the beating heart on fire
These lights are the road and I will trace their glowing ancestry from my parental lips
My love is here, burning for you all
Consuming this place, or at least these few feet of personal space that surround me
"Consuming" might be an overstatement
But by golly, this little spot where I stand is hot like concrete in summer
So my love is here for you
Glowing with the the soft light of 40,000 moons
And that statement I do not retract
Because this city in whose belly we sit does not allow it
The city demands my hyperbole
And it accepts the outrage that comes with it and twists it into the shape of a street lamp
Spilling cold yellow light all down the side of every passing black dress
Just look at you there, looking so nice for this night on this town
And for me this city takes out a tube of her favorite lipstick
And mops the naked streets with that elegant irresistible hue
And turns to me and bats her eyes and says to me a few warm words that I will never share with you, not like this
But if I could persuade you to look me in the eye
I would assure you that tonight this city is mine
This city and all of you that are here with me tonight
Though you're not actually "here with me", so to speak
You are the pearls strung around her delicate neck
Promising soon to spill wildly out
Into the side streets and alleyways
And then to trickle down her stockinged highways
Just beyond her reach as she reaches helplessly after you
But if at that moment you would think to turn
And glance again at that lovely shape one last time
You would see the cityscape shining
Against the dark embrace of this wonderful night
That has beckoned me here tonight.

There was a time when I had a single, clear memory of you I remember the sweetness and the sorrow of that memory But I don’t remember the memory itself The idea of that memory has been whitewashed The details have been blurred or else discarded A new clarity has been conjured, manufactured, forged So, yes When you ask if I remember I will say that I do And in a way I do And I will smile in a way that should let you know That I have no idea who you really are Because if I remembered now what I did remember back then The smile would be different Somehow.  The first domino falls Where once there was remembering, there is only forgetting The years pass. I’ve found a new happiness While keeping up an old habit I sit in front of the screen Playing back my recorded memories Passing the darkest hours of the night Watching scenes captured and stored From thousands of ordinary days Searching for a flash of recognition And when I get that first sensation of drifting off I will pause the recorded memory at that very moment And take that frozen moment, whatever the moment And remember I forget everything else And make that one distorted image the thing I remember.

And So It Begins

First there was a Ringmaster, and before anything else he set up a tent with three rings.  The rings were empty, and the Ringmaster strolled quietly throughout the tent.  The Ringmaster went to the first ring, and in the first ring he evoked wonder, and the wonder made a distinction between the unordinary and the ordinary.  The Ringmaster found this sense of wonder to be delightful, and he pondered this as he stepped out of the first ring.

The Ringmaster went to the second ring, and in the second ring he evoked amusement, and the amusement made a distinction between the funny and the serious.  The Ringmaster found this sense of amusement to be enjoyable, and he pondered this as he stepped out of the second ring.

The Ringmaster went to the third ring, and in the third ring he didn’t evoke anything in particular, but he did reflect on the sense of wonder he had in the first ring and the sense of amusement he had in the second ring.  As he reflected on these things he was inspired by the unordinary and the funny, and this gave him a new perspective on the ordinary and the serious.  His head was filled with all sorts of ideas when he stepped out of the third ring.

The First Ring

The Ringmaster found himself swimming and soaring inside his own head, afloat and adrift in the ideas that were coming to life in his mind.  He was startled into an awareness that he was not alone, but he was reluctant to leave the cocoon of his thoughts.  Eventually his awareness grew irresistible, and he began remembering his own form, and then suddenly he plummeted back into his body.  He opened his eyes and saw his brother dancing about, and he remembered what he wanted to tell him.

“I just had the dream again where I was flying.  I never feel more confident than I do when I have that dream.  Is there a way that we could recreate that here?” said the Ringmaster.

The Ringmaster’s brother nodded and said, “I can’t remember the last time I met anyone this side of the angels who was even willing to fly.  If you could find someone who is willing, I could give them the ability.”

The Ringmaster pointed to the first ring and asked, “Could we do it over there?”

The Ringmaster’s brother grinned and said, “I’ll go get the rope.”

The Ringmaster started out by demonstrating to his brother all of the maneuvers he had dreamed up while flying among the ideas in his head.  At the same time his brother was hurling great lengths of rope into the air to get a good look at it from that perspective.  As their experiments began to take shape, the shape that they gradually took was that of a trapeze.  The Ringmaster and his brother examined the trapeze that they had created, and it sparked in them a sense of wonder.  

As the trapeze swung toward the Ringmaster, he became aware that the movement was as graceful as it was powerful.  It was an angelic display of beauty, and in awe he called out, “Who are you?”

She didn’t know what had happened or how she got there.  A faint feeling of recognition flashed across her face when she thought she saw a lion out of the corner of her eye, but she decided that it must have been an apparition or a trick of light.  It took her a second to realize that she was flying, and a second more to realize that someone was speaking to her.  Without thinking she said, “I am your acrobat,” as she waved to The Ringmaster.

The Ringmaster clapped his hands, and the acrobat recognized instantly that this was her first memory of music. She climbed down to the ground with the same natural ease that she had when she was maneuvering in the air.  The trapeze continued stirring overhead as other acrobats arrived in the same manner after her.  The Ringmaster approached her and began telling her how wonderful it was to have all of them there in the first ring of the circus.  The ring was bustling in such a way that it seemed it had always been bustling, and so it was that the ring took on a life of its own.

The Second Ring

The Ringmaster was distracted as he approached the second of his three rings.  Though he was intending to work on plans for the second ring, he couldn’t help noticing that his brother was involved in some kind of commotion just outside the tent.  The Ringmaster went outside and saw that his brother was yelling and throwing things, but he didn’t seem to be particularly angry.

The Ringmaster approached his brother and said, “What is going on out here?”

His brother picked up a tomato, threw it at a rowdy crowd of people, and said, “Shenanigans!  This group of ne’er-do-wells was wandering by, and when I asked what they were doing they challenged me to a snowball fight.”

The Ringmaster took a moment to scan the area and said, “I can’t help noticing that there’s no snow anywhere in sight.”

His brother jumped out of the way of a rapidly approaching clod of dirt and said, “It’s somewhat unorthodox, there’s no question about that.  But this doesn’t seem like a group that would let that kind of detail interfere with the progress of a good snowball fight.”

The Ringmaster laughed as the so-called snowball fight continued, and he began hatching a new idea as he watched.  He approached the group of ne’er-do-wells and said, “I can see that you are a harmless bunch of characters, and most likely a misunderstood bunch at that.  But I also know that this type of behavior is usually frowned upon in the normal course of things.  Have you ever thought of looking for a place where things don’t always follow such a normal course?”

The group of ne’er-do-wells liked the Ringmaster’s idea, and they responded very enthusiastically to his premise.  At that point he said, “I want to show you a place that I think would be perfect for you.  If you want to see it, just follow me!”

The Ringmaster led the group of ne’er-do-wells into his tent and introduced them to the second ring of his three-ring circus.  As they entered the second ring and resumed their usual antics, they discovered that the Ringmaster’s brother was an expert at designing projectiles, crafting mallets, and inventing props like they had never imagined before.  The group of ne’er-do-wells told the Ringmaster that they were now his clowns, and he told them that they were already creating a wonderful sense of amusement.  Even as he turned to leave the second ring, the Ringmaster laughed at the thought of the gags and the stunts that the clowns had already perfected.

The Third Ring

A desolate silence was sweeping and swirling around outside the tent.  Occasionally the dull rumble of pandemonium would roll in from beyond the horizon, echoing with the chaos that was swimming and soaring in every direction.  The Ringmaster was discouraged to see that everything outside seemed so hopeless and dark.  Doubts about whether his circus was worthwhile crept into his restless and wandering mind.  His acrobats and his clowns noticed his distraction, and so they too started to feel a little distracted.  They watched anxiously as the Ringmaster walked with slow, heavy steps to the third ring of his circus.

Once inside the third ring he dropped to one knee, lowered himself to a seated position, and then reclined slowly back onto the ground.  He folded his hands across his chest and let his eyes wander slowly about the tent.  As the Ringmaster remembered everything that he and his brother had done to create the trapeze and usher in the acrobats and wrangle the clowns, he started to feel as though his whole body might be floating ever so slightly above the ground.  He found himself rolling gently down a hill, and he giggled as he turned and bounced and turned and bounced on the lush, grassy slope.  He began imagining the clowns running ahead of him, racing like horses to keep from being steamrolled by their leader.  He imagined the acrobats flying overhead and making nosedives directly at him, and then pulling up just before colliding with him.  The acrobats would buzz the heads of the clowns, causing them to dive for cover and then flip quickly back onto their nimble feet.  Gradually the clowns mustered the courage to ignore the acrobats buzzing overhead.  So the acrobats began grasping the heads of the clowns firmly in their hands, and then as they soared back up into the clouds the necks of the befuddled clowns stretched out into long rubbery lines from their heads down to their bodies that were still running down the hill.  As they reached the clouds, the acrobats would then release the clowns’ heads and watch as they were reeled back in to rejoin the bodies that continued to run as though they were oblivious to the plights of the exasperated clown heads that were plummeting back toward them.

The Ringmaster awoke suddenly from his dream to the sound of trumpets blaring throughout his tent.  He jumped to his feet and began spinning in every direction, looking frantically for the source of this stupendous sound.  But the trumpeting had stopped, and there were no trumpets to be found anywhere in the tent.  He noticed his brother putting up torches throughout the tent, and he ran over to see if he knew what had happened.

“I was just having a dream like I’d never had before, and the last thing I remember hearing sounded like trumpets.  Did you hear those trumpets just now?” said the Ringmaster.

“I did hear them, but I don’t think it came from any trumpets,” said the Ringmaster’s brother.  “I’ve been hearing more and more music like that since I started setting up these torches.”

The Ringmaster began walking slowly from torch to torch, listening carefully for the sound of music.  He said, “It feels almost like the music is running in circles around these torches, but the torches aren’t making any of the music.”

A faint feeling of recognition flashed across the Ringmaster’s face when he thought he saw a lion out of the corner of his eye, but when he turned there was no lion in sight.  A torch flickered on the opposite side of him, and for a moment he thought he saw a great elephant illuminated in its flame.  These flashes triggered the memory of familiar voices of trumpeting elephants, purring lions, whistling monkeys, and thundering horses.  He recognized that this was the music he was hearing now.  He turned to his brother and said, “This tent is full of invisible musicians.  There’s an orchestra of ghostly animals performing a symphony of their very own.”

His brother nodded and said, “I think this band of ghosts is drawn to the flames of these torches.  When I look at you standing in the center of the ring surrounded by all of these torches, I can see them dancing from flame to flame out of the corners of my eyes.”

The Ringmaster swayed confidently within the third ring of his circus as he began conducting his newly found band.  The animals followed their new leader through the melodies and rhythms that they discovered together as they each performed their parts.  The form of each animal became clearer as the parts that they performed became more unified.

The band continued to play on through the night.  The animals no longer seemed to be ghosts at all.  The acrobats continued to fill the first ring with wonder, and the clowns continued to fill the second ring with amusement.  The Ringmaster was inspired to see what his circus was becoming, and he leaped out of the third ring as he ran to share some more new ideas with his brother.

 

After reading and re-reading mushr's "& If This is But a Dream" RECord I was inspired - mushr's RECords often have that effect on me.  I wanted to take the nursery rhymes that came to mind while reading her text and weave them into her text to see what the result would be.  It brought so many images to mind, I couldn't resist RECording it as best I could.

-----

 

I miss the way that your snoring sounds like pelicans being pulled to safety from the wreckage of an automobile accident
I miss the pet names that you would call me during your blood curdling fits of rage directed at my face from close range
I miss not knowing for sure whether you used up the last of the poison in last night's beef stroganoff or whether there still might be some in tonight's meatball surprise
I miss the contour of the door on your late-model Pontiac that you tried to fashion into an oversized metal mitten for my sensitive blood-filled hand
I miss the continental breakfast that you used to decorate my mother's portrait every Tuesday night while we were together
I miss the way your shadow would dance across my limp body as you recreated scenes from The Pit and The Pendulum using my banjo
I miss the feel of your heels, your arches, and your toes training my torso to be your own private pedestrian walkway
I miss the echoes of laughter that resonated against my skull as you bellowed into crevices in the corrugated metal helmet you made for my birthday
I miss the way you would coax me from dream-filled slumber by shoveling gravel from a garbage bag into my bed in the still, dark hours of the morning
I miss the walks we used to take on those dusty summer nights as the fireflies lit the way to safety away from the inferno that you fashioned from the more flammable parts of my house
I lie here, watching the phone you used to dislodge my front tooth, but still it refuses to ring.