June 8th, This Honey Coated Life

I'm in a sticky spot today. It seems my horoscope, instead of reading something like this:

Your optimism continues to push you further outside your protective shell, and if you are careful, you can feel safer once you break through the initial resistance. Remember, however, that everything is not as it appears. Slow down; sensible caution will serve you well. Your chances of success are better if you wait a few days until you feel more secure.

Should have read more like this:

Your history will come flooding back to you today. In all shapes and sizes. It will send you reeling, unable to shut the door against the flood of memories that threatens to wash away your sanity and sense of now.

My sense of now, being extremely strong (for those of you who don't know).

It all started this morning when I read my Great Aunt Elsa's story she sent me. It seemed to be semi-autobiographical account of her mothers death. A great woman who I never had the privilege of meeting. The one who I was named after. I was floored, left wishing (yet again) that I had known her. Later, I found an old, old, old, old friend of mine online. Seriously. so old, I can barely remember. These memories, wishes, dreams of mine, are like rotten honey. Slow and sweet and sad. I tried to capture it but it is so fuzzy. I can't quite describe it. But I tried to anyways...

***********

These memories are not like the others. They are bittersweet, and sticky. Perhaps it is just the weather today but these... They are different. They do not flood, they trickle. They do not smell, taste, or feel. They are only there. They are fuzzy and sticky and make it hard to breathe sometimes. It’s dark in here, in this corner. I can only feel with my hands, which are numb from these sticky recollections. I can pluck a couple of visuals, some words, some girly screams and giggles, and soft and distant a piano playing. It’s a tune I don’t know. But it’s beautiful.
These are the levels of the tower that is my subconscious. On the bottom, it is wide, deep, and bright. As we move upward, the tower gets narrow, the pool shallower, and the light dims. Here, at the top there’s not room for much. It’s everything ugly and painful and hard like stone. Better not to stay up here long. Let’s move down a level or two. Besides, this is not where we need to be anyways. These sticky memories are not located here.
They are here. Down here with the fluffy ones. But they are heavier and have sunken to the floor. I can kneel, if I close my eyes and hold my breath. If I try not to breathe any of those fluffy, airy ones, I can get to these, maybe. Ready? Deep breath, let’s go. I see an uncomfortable little girl in a scratchy strawberry costume. The painted foam is itchy and she scratches constantly, a permanent frown etched onto her face. I can see a garage, some stairs, soft, clean Berber carpet, a red-headed kitty, plaster face casts, black lacquer-it’s fading- I know there have to be Barbies in here somewhere but I cant see any. Karate costumes, Dorothy Gale costumes- it’s almost gone now – is that a fireplace? A porch? I can’t tell anymore. It’s gone now. Is that all there is here? It’s almost like not breathing. I could try to find something else but these sticky memories aren’t going anywhere so let’s go. That music is growing louder and it’s so beautiful, I can’t ignore it any longer. It’s up a level or two. Come on.
This level is so hard to reach. The air is thin. The steps are large. I almost have to climb. It’s such a labor. As soon as I get up here, I realize it’s a false level. A fake, a trick. I can’t even hear the piano anymore. I have tricked myself into thinking that I could know her from those who actually did. There aren’t very many stories. There’s a nice, painted portrait with a regal sort of gold frame. There’s a violin. And that’s it. How do we finish this level? A white kitty doorstop statue. How do we know her? I only have other people’s memories. And that is not enough.
They say each time you remember something, your only remembering the last time you recalled it. Memories can change frequently and quickly and without warning. Especially if there are never recorded. Who will write the stories? Who will keep the tower standing when it starts to crumble? I will, if you tell me your stories.

***********