Now is the point at which I climb into a mind-space furnished with these spooks of a time before the transformation. The remnants of the figures I once knew drip with trails of spectral light like car headlights captured on a camera out of focus. What edge of a thing lost am I persistently after, that contorted shape fast darting away from the eyeline and recognition? I decide to reduce the present to a frozen winter, which seems more fitting. With no notion of permanence, ah so here’s the terrible beauty of desirable and desired memories appearing on the horizon and then evaporating as though just self-drawn semblances.
what edge of a thing lost?
My mind careens backwards to fleeting coves, the places where I bottled a much-diluted version of the progressing sentiment, of the luscious days. Phantoms in real time. A period of identikit days when ambition could be relied upon for forward motion, even though the coldest snaps that washed over all aspects of life covered them in an endless freezing grey film.
And yet it was a manageable solace, one with an end. But the shadows I refused to or failed to converse with, those muddy figures around the sides, the ones I failed to capture, of course represent eras that were blurry then and are feted to remain greyed out for all time now. My only option is to lament the loss and perhaps, when I feel ready, grab any slither of whatever I need from that slippery epoch and use it to propel myself forwards. Because even though all these and those former spaces shimmer with innumerable lost voices they must not be left to rot; I convince myself that a little thing from the degrading eras can be retained.
a balmy season on the brink
All will not be lost. Believe! In my mind’s eye I focus on the sweet brittleness of spring, beer glinting in late afternoon sun, a flaming clementine, and how it’s a balmy season always on the brink of perfection but that can actually be crushed forever. There is nothing comparable to the first few days of spring – the fresh moments of light, that fragrant blossoming cologne that can only mean renewed life, and people’s inextinguishable moods. One colossal season glows brightest.
© Copyright 2021 John Maher