it would have been impossible for the pedagogues
to pour their magic amnesia juices
into my sponge / swiss cheese of a brain
come the 6am of life that's youth in all
its bothersome details...
                                           unless they did so,
i suppose: with good intent...
                                    that there is no real worth
of a moment, there's no intrinsic value stamped to it:
when sitting in a classroom...
                      going through one rubric after another -
i suppose "they" tried to shackle the faculty of
memory to th e stones of: 2 + 2 = 4,
  th + o + u + (gh) and although thought out...
say... dates and measures of a critique of history,
a reverence for our father...
  all those corrosive juices for the brain -
yet! staples for: a refined worth of a man when
convening to communicate -
    after all? a spelling mistake?!
  durch gott, nein!
   otherwise: the purpose of this "meditation"
is to scrutinise the nature of memory?
    that memory is somehow never more than
the fickle creature?
    not that i might remember
one of charles olson's maximus poems off
by heart.. no rhyme - no rhyme no easy feat
to remember -
but... that some latin might trickle down
for peacock-esque 'give me this, give me that:
all things shiny, there! a frenzied magpie!'
memoria: creatura levis -
          memory: a fickle creature...
                      which is stretching the connotation
of 'light' - beyond photon and tying
rain in a bowtie of sorts...
       hardly a... enigmatic ref. point to 'what's
death, by measure?'
   in Aldhelm's sum gravior plumbo...
                              sum levior pluma...
(i am heavier than lead...
   i am lighter than a feather)...
perhaps memory is-and-isn't both or at least
more than the other...
that i can't exactly chose what i want
to remember - not always not never -
that memory is a res per se / a thing in itself
and it alone decides what moments
it sieves through and which moments it keeps
an elevates to status of: our guarded fragments
of iota and selb...
                              perhaps even a pinch of soul...
back to the classroom...
and that i would be too old to have
to strain my aging eyes on katakana vowels...
アA
       イI ウU   エE   オO...
already the conflict of "interest" at the 4th
vowel and prior to that?
   a (bcd) e (fgh) i (jklmn) o...
                     or that i would require
a knowledge of words cut up into workable
syllables - how... i would be less inquisitive
as to tongue-tie myself breaking these urns
of vowels - but otherwise
cut like sushi i.e. take the name like...
    NI-KI-TA...
                      ニキタ...
that only vowels are free-standing...
       but no consonant is?
                     again: no ha(r)ve(st)...
                   ~      シュカク
                                                         (shukaku)...
for good measure:
                   a critique of memory -
prior to some grand life-tugging events -
a blitzkrieg of assorted liquorice monstrosities
subsequently dipped into marmite
yeast spread...
                          that from early life
memory has two lives...
                  the life of a child playing games
and fiddling with a puzzle of dreams -
and the life of: under the strict nadzur /
supervision of pedagogues...
                                as is evident in english:
two tiers: the written language and the spoken
language...
            is never the same language...
it isn't exactly orthography without diacritical
markers... more a spelling mistake /
a rebellious phoneticism return to:
             i.e. don't pity the graffiti when...
                         you'll see it later anyway
   (uL c it l8er n.e.way)
                          less thinking:
                more finkin...
                                            etc. -
                which is to say: not in defence of
Bernard Shaw's attempt at ridding this tongue
its written standard
                   with the spoken freedom...
but standards are standards: whether it is an
erosion of memory - oh yes...
    because we really do have control over
what we end up remembering:
  if it isn't drilled in by the marches of pedagogy...
even from those autobiographical sketches
that seem rather inexhaustible at times...
            no one moment can be cherished -
come to think of it...
                  should any moment be elevated to
a memory: shouldn't that be a privilege?
                     - or could... stretching out like
sea or rubber - some definition of time -
at each of life's pivotal agonies or splendours
a crux colon prompting exhalation of: eureka!
- but the interchange of play
from moment to moment and if memory
is obliging, then isn't:
                εὕρηκα! έχασατο! εὕρηκα! έχασατο!
i found it! i lost it! i found it! i lost it!
     - to what end... play truant or perhaps
tug at lesser fixations of this ordeal
      of "life", i.e.
            out-of-every-instance
                    (ex omni exempli gratia: instantia)
                            an insistence?
           some would call it shipwrecks of those
immediately preceding days:
   how monstrously monotonous they all become
and therefore indistinguishable -
  for even memory to be jolted into
aggressive churning and sieving through:
something for its library and subsequently for
the cinema of static images moved by
a quasi-telekinesis...
               now that this has become an event
of "too much":
                of time and of what's at best
recurring -
                            come winter: a season of
testimonies - come winter and the dizzying
plethora of scents: smoking oak and acorn bark...
frost bitten clamour of fallen autumnal leaves...
that memory is fickle...
          and that there are sometimes too
many moments to spare as worth keeping...
              then again:
                                   perhaps none are.