Just about done with one of four essays, and have discovered something about myself in the writing of it. I am not of this time.
The reason that I don’t particularly like history is because I seem to have no grasp on time. I find myself, in merely researching the Romanticists, losing track of what century I’m looking at. Who lived when is a mystery. I’m selecting artists more by what I remember them wearing than comprehending where they belong in history. I simply don’t have a clue.
It may also be the reason I feel uncomfortable in this space of both time and place. It is not familiar, and Lord knows, I should have gotten used to it by now. I have no idea if the winter before this just past was heavy with snow, or unusually balmy, nor what was the decade of hippies. I have always been this way, as if the years, eras, centuries, have melded into a book to find by flipping pages.
I get the feeling that I shall someday slip quietly into the clutch of Alzheimers and no one shall be the wiser.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology
then certainly you must take care to make the aquaintance of those that can track the time in your stead … surround yourself with people steeped in history, and you shall always know exactly what yesterday’s memories might have been
or, better yet, drift away into the timelessness as easily as melting butter meets the warmth of fresh-cooked pancakes
I think I prefer Plan B. It’s never been my style to be normal.