The past is a stepping stone, not a millstone.
– Robert Plant
Ah, my friend the past – with all your secrets. You won’t catch me in your net again. I’ll dive beneath the sea and wriggle free from your oozy arms. Don’t come at me with your wily ways. You’ve cheated on me before. But hey – I cheated on you!
Don’t sweet-talk me, then sail away – parade the skeletons and steal the jewels. I’m just not buying everything you’re selling. Sure I’ll take a look at your wares. And then decide.
Don’t try to coerce me or seduce me. I’ve seen you open eyes, then latch the hatch. Engage the heavens and spill the spoils. Don’t send me your henchmen to advise. Sometimes I just want to revise you.
You can’t fool me with your cloud of ink like an eight-armed mollusk. I’ve seen your camouflage. I’ve watched you solve a maze, change shape and regrow limbs – slip into a crevice. Cling to your den.
But listen, my confidant the past – I can’t sever our ties. Upon reflection, I’m addicted to your disappearing tricks – a current of watery mirrors from here to eternity.
A humble warrior, I bow to you. But not when you shelter horrors or cover for pirates who tarnish my soul. Not when you enable imposters or malware my memories. If I want to inhabit the night and dance with fireflies, take a lover out of context or commune with the moon – that’s my dark art. I’m the one who gets to reinvent.
When I went through all that buried treasure last week digging for missing pieces, I couldn’t believe what you labeled trash in the hope I wouldn’t uncover clues.
The wound is the place where the Light enters you.
– Rumi
The elegant trunks I believed held Houdini or at least housed his magic turned out to be a trap – musty and melancholy. But I hold the secret to the lock I had to break. You can’t believe I put those black and gold (with silver) trunks that once held fame, out on the highway. I can’t believe their vanishing fortune bought me freedom.
You warn of dangerous toxins – say don’t open those. Just keep them hanging around. Do you not see invisible sparkles hover as I open box after box? Tea trays, silver spoons, baby clothes and a globe. Passports, tickets and glorious remnants. A tweed cap and ashes, a belt and a ring, bikinis and bangles and faded bandanas. Opium pipes and objects of voodoo. Incense, batiks and coral carved with juju. A golden kimono dyed smoky green with silky fans and florals. An Hermès saddle, bridles and hundreds of proofs – a tangle of bits mingled with tinctures and spurs.
Ah, you vagabond with your sordid tales – you once pelted icicles at me cold as hell – sharp as a blade. But I outwitted you with alchemy. Now you swab my tears – ignite my joy. Whisper in the undulating breeze – let me listen to the lap of waves. Rustle fronds to summon me. Call me in the throes of indigo night – meet me in the cave by firelight.
But I’m still wary of your hooks. Don’t sling your knotted net to lure me in your snare. If you do, I’ll split the orange sunset – and you’ll never find the blues.
So, my friend the past – I’ll dive under the cerulean sea with you, levitate to the stars and back. You can cast your spell – try to capture me. I’ll never leave you. But I will be free.
Ah, you trickster – I love you. And all your illusions!
Wonderful words Martha xx
A constructive one-eighty! The current instant our only rear time, the past still visits with reminders to build on.
Indeed a rich life Martha! Oh if it would only translate into $$’s!!
My head in my hands, I give it a shake. Multicolored marbles rattle music too loud to sing to. My aging body unable to sort or trash the clutter. Accumulated wisdom sees the words and celebrates. And maybe dance at some time with other partners.
Your writings always hit me in unexpected places, Martha. Thank you.
All the words we conjure up to hide from the past, to confront it, to banish it, to play with it – to endlessly have it chase us – and then we have a choice – love it and move on, or move on and partner with it.
Beautifully said, Martha. I too hold onto things from the past, whether positive memories or wretched. They are part of my history. Sometimes I find the courage to banish them, and sometimes the universe does it for me. Mementos from my first love that I dragged around for years eventually broke one by one. And I survived their breakage. But the memories are always with us. Good or bad, they make us who we are.
The marine imagery hypnotized me. It made me reflect on the fluidity of our past, whose ripples and waves unravel riches and shipwrecks, terrors and forgotten bliss. A profound meditation on past and memories, thank you.
And thank you for adding such a suave connotation for 'malware'!