there are

those who say
burn the fields clean
start over

those who say
never forget
re-live the acts & words

those who say
not one thing
nor another

its a synthesis
a quilt
threads of color & sound
texture & scent

the clock is papyrii
seconds are pages turning
the hours caught in amphora
sunken to the bottom
of times ocean

there are

those who say
it doesn't matter
meaning floats

those who say
to forget it
drown the lacunae

wither the layers of paint
in the heat of this
investigation

those who say
turn the light off
you are destroying the
historically valuable aspects

air bubbles glug towards
the surface the old clay
seams weaken microscopically
along my usual faults

Another examination of a recorded life. I have too many notebooks, too many pages, not enough time, too many memories, not enough synthesis. The advice I get is all over the map. What is right for me? To look, to ignore. I have done both in exquisite detail and concentration. The act of clearing the mind becomes a struggle through the ocean of all existence. There is that old story about the akashic record: somewhere there is a record of everything that has ever existed, words, deeds, evolution. Somewhere there is a Cecil B. DeMille level of recording that has taken on all atomic being as its premise. Now that's a real finnegan's wake. Wonder if Joyce has run across the author as of yet.