Tag Archives: Memory

Dreamer’s Struggle—Reality or Fear?

4 Nov

My blood is pumping, my ears cannot distinguish between the sounds of screams, moans and yells, the mob is too much. Clusters of people are gathering around squishing, pushing, no hesitation, only panic.

I wake up. Dead air, silence, nothing.

I can go back in time,

I can rehearse the chaos,

Feel the hands, and fingers of hundreds poking at me,

grabbing,

what is this nightmare?
Is it a reality? A memory from before this life?

How can a dream feel so vivid, so real….so much like the crystallized snapshot,

only memories are capable of producing?

I close my eyes, the bed says sleep child, sleep.

Yet the child shivers,

And though my body is no longer small and weak,

Though my hands have grown,

And my knowledge of this world deepended,

The helplessness is still there,

The unknowing, that fear that is easy to push down,

Comes back up sometimes…

I tell myself it is not real…I am in control.

Sometimes though, when I have fought too much,

When my armor is off,

It is hard, it is a choice.

Let the fear consume me, I could just stay in my shell forever.

Or crush my teeth together, scream at this nameless evil,

And reach a state of happiness,

Hard to grasp,

But once I’m there—

The struggle makes sense,

The worth of happiness is stronger than the price of remaining nothing.

The Stolen Relic

29 Aug

Summer trickled down my ears,

and slid off my nose. The castle, which was once grand,

now stood in shambles,

an ancient relic, of a world placed in a war of religion and country.

A boy, who spoke fluently in a color of  five languages, was showing us around, for a little price

he did this, he said, for the family. Made some money

by showing tourists, his old stomping grounds of his childhood.

I wondered if his parents were angered that the ruins

would now become an exhibition to all in the world

wondering men and women

curious about the way things were.

But really, we were all here because of curiosity

there was a sort of magic up on that mountain,

the labyrinth of white stone and collapsed grayed walls around us.

I imagined what it must have been like hundreds of years before we stepped here

maybe a barbarian king sat at the slab of what resembled a table,

and all his warriors around him

The great height of beauty in which we stood could never be penetrated,

But after centuries, anything is possible.

I wandered away from the group,

I wanted my own secrets to bring back.

Decay, lizards and birds, insects prowling, overgrown tree’s and bushes,

If I had lived all those years ago, and known this would happen to my home

why I would be–a dismal being.

In a week, I’d be on a plane, thousands of miles away

an ocean between the ruins and I.

So I took something, stole it, I suppose but no one owned this place any longer

so why not take something back as to not forget it.

A heart shaped rock—carved by nature herself,

I held it, close to me, felt its energy in its ancient language.

The hum of animal and wind was all around,

and this would be the relic that I brought back,

to remember that this world is not as it seems.

That night, as the others drank I slept with the rock in my hand.

Dreams of sea, blood, battle, screams, cry’s, laughter, the aroma of herbs

touched me awake. Heart pounding, hand gripped in a fist, I let go of the rock,

–and it was the last time, it ever gave me another vision of the past.

For I think it sensed fear in me,

because the past, is wonderful, it’s beautiful, but I cannot understand it,

It felt as if I was there, as if I lived not in the modern era

but the time where men ran amuck  in this world,

no figmented laws to protect them.

For awhile, I forgot the dream,

Kept the rock hidden.

—————————————————–

I found the rock wrapped in cloth, with all my other trinkets

I touched it, and felt no energy, just a smooth surface.

It had been years since the rock was home,

and I wondered if I should bring it back?

Maybe it’s homesick?

maybe it’s lost its energy…

or maybe I simply lost mine.

Disgust Me

27 Aug

It was a Sunday afternoon,

when I saw the child beaten

Five years old

and I saw it.

They were outside,

throwing small rocks at the street

and one of them

mistakenly,

threw a rock at a moving car.

A small sleek car, too perfect for the neighborhood.

The rock hit the windshield,

I heard the crack, heard the car screech at a stop

my heart stopped, I let go of the Barbie,

my parents were upstairs I was in the front yard

I should have ran up…but shock kept me seated on the warm grass

A tall man slammed his door shut,

got out so quickly

the huddle of children were dispersing,

he grabbed one of the children by the neck

like a small puppy

the child in his little red t-shit struggled in the air

screamed, I let out a little yelp in response

but was too far, the man didn’t even notice me.

He threw the kid to the ground.

” You fucking shithead” I didn’t know what those words meant

but I remember the ferocity in which the man spoke them.

I ran towards the gates which encompassed the property,

I grabbed the wired holes with my little hands,

as he kicked the child, only seven maybe,

I cried out, “NO NO NO”

The man continued to hit him

screaming at the kid,

Where were the parents, why were kids only out here, why!

A bigger child, a plum little guy, with curly auburn hair and tan skin

ran out with a bat, he reached the man’s knees

and hit him,

the man grabbed the bat threw it to the ground.

I was running out now,

I don’t know what got a hold of me

I grabbed my grandfathers cane

both the kids were on the ground screaming

this all happened in a matter of minutes yet it felt like hours.

A little girl running with a cane,

I came at the man

and I yelled not in english,

He turned at me, I remember the barbarity of his eyes

those eyes were blue, and in another circumstance I would have called them

calm like a sea breeze

But they were full of anger,

he had the bat up,

he looked at me and stopped

a little girl in a pink dress,

with a cane,

astonishment crinkled on his face,

the bat dropped from his hands

clattered on the cement.

He stared at me,

I just looked up

” Shesto?” why? I asked

” I..” was all I remember

and then my mother ran out

screaming at the man,

other parents were coming out now

The man was still staring at me,

the cane still in my hand as my mother held on to me.

He ran back to his car, and sped off.

The police were called,

the kids went to the hospital,

I don’t know if that man was ever caught.

That night my mother held me,

crying,

thanking god her child hadn’t been hurt,

I remember telling her mama, mama its okay

I remember her singing in an ancient language, rocking me to sleep,

the children’s faces,

the man’s muscled arm, his leg ready for a swift kick.

Was it because I was a girl?

Is that why he stopped?

Years went by, we moved to a bigger house

my parents earned a great living

in a suburban town

with good to do people

where such things don’t happen, in the open.

But every once in a while,

I’ll see those eyes on another man or woman,

not the color, that doesn’t matter, the hate,

on a good to do person,

and that’s when I realize,

some people have a monster inside them

much worse than mine.

And they can hide it with facial expressions

and rich clothing

and a career to back it up,

but I know, that all these things

these accessories that we hide ourselves in, to pretend we aren’t human

can’t hide the fact that we are human.

Nearly twenty years have gone by,

and it’s crystal clear,

hardened in me,

forever I will hold the lesson,

and I hope you do to

that some people can quickly…

turn into monsters, and so can we

so can I, any of us can

that’s why we have to remember that there is such a thing

as right and wrong.

I’m still a little girl,

that brown cane in my hand,

that outrage in me.

How dare anyone do this,

I didn’t know the kids,

don’t know them now,

but violence is violence

and I wish everyday

that our world could forget it.

The struggle of revulsion,

The pain of that reality,

I’ll never understand.

Child’s Imagination

25 Jun

I was about five years old, it was summer time in the big city,

The sea was close by, and I was excited as we got into the taxi,

Ready to go have some splashing adventures,

Stuck in traffic we waited for a few minutes, maybe more

Memory is tricky in that way

But I remember turning around and seeing a man with sunglasses, a charcoal jumpsuit and a heavy black mustache running down the streets, he had a bag in his hand, a large pink woman’s bag!

Another man was chasing after him,

A blonde older man, and after him a young woman with short hair like a pixie her breasts bouncing about, sweat running down from her hair-line, worry distorting her her face.

I don’t know what happened next, but I remember thinking wow!

My cousin had not seen the thief, which I assumed he was,

But because I was a child and mixed with excitement and fear my cousin tried explaining “no no it doesn’t happen all the time!” “ he won’t get you”

I wasn’t afraid of the thief getting me. I just really wanted to know: what happens next!?

Another funny thing happened that summer at the age of five,

When we were in the airport, sitting with my parents at the terminal

I was people watching and docile,

All kinds of humans walking with their luggage, looking for their flights.

When I saw a woman with a wonderful grey colored trench coat that clung to her figure. Medium length blonde hair, a pretty face, though my memory can’t give me a vivid picture any more,

Anyway I noticed that there was something strange about her, she didn’t have any luggage.

None at all, only shopping bags. And in her hand she had a walkie talkie and was whispering into it.

AH I thought I had caught  a secret agent! I was so curious, who was she, what was she doing? Did she work for the government? Did she live an exciting life?

It’s funny these random pictures that I remember.

I’ve never seen anything quite like that again,

The thief and the secret agent.

Or maybe is it because I have gotten older and lost that childlike curiosity,

And the ability to see things as if they were stories,

Curiosity is the key to story telling.

I believe it because once you go out and start looking at things

Or people, or even just sit in your room and look out the window—

The stories will come to you.