Sometimes when I am remembering, I am not remembering at all, but creating what has already happened in the past in a new way, a new light, a new version, maybe one I like better, maybe one I like less. Sometimes when I think I am remembering, I am not thinking of anything at all. And remembering becomes a state of nothingness, where all is not lost, but I am.
The line of human interaction is a tenuous one at best. I think of hearts and minds connecting like the scene on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel where God’s finger connects by electricity to Adam’s as he reaches skyward. But as God would not use as mundane a force as electricity, neither does the power of hearts and minds.
It is Saturday morning, 10:56, no 10:57. I was lost for a minute.
Did I ever tell you about the time I decided to become a boy when I was in a foster home when I was four? I wanted to be a boy with red hair and freckles who could run really fast and climb to the top of the monkey bars and swing fearlessly from the very top. And when I was a boy I wouldn’t be scared. And my name was going to be Mikey and I was going to wear blue pants and sneakers and shirt with blue and gold stripes.
When I was bigger, about eight, I wanted to play with the boys so I could say fuck and shit like they did.
I liked Jay Black when I was seven because even though he was a boy, and he was two years older than me, he let me play soldier with him. And he never asked me to take my pants down. Not until I was thirteen anyway, after I kissed him. By the time I was thirteen, I knew better than to take my pants down. And we were too old to play soldier. So we had no more in common.
Saturday morning, 11:38.
Minutes tick by irretrievable.