Phantasmal mirth: her secrets.

8:36 am

Memory is more than ideas and sensations.  Yes, Buck is right.  Ok.  I give him that.  But it is also an experience, my experience and my memory of it is a feature of me with a logic internal only to me.  What am I but memory?  That’s it.  Memory of the past that was and the past that never was (but might have been was).   A growing, solid, massive, increasing expanding thing, and just over there, look there, the paltry and shapeless future.  Small.  I hope (not much) I fear (too much).  I had hoped more but that is part of the past now too, lurching away.  I remember my mother and here she is now, enormous.  She fills my now.  She’s right here, do you feel her filling the room?  Of course you don’t.  I do.  Her things, her smells, her tap water before mass, her baked apple filled with brown sugar.  You can’t smell it but I can.