A Recovered Journal Memory, 2002

Tonight while awaiting the new year (oh dear, it’s already here!), I came across a visit I made with my middle daughter to the burial place of a distant family line.  It was a sunny day and ours was a genealogical mission. We found the family enclosure on church grounds and read several epitaphs:  “Father in thy gracious keeping leave we now thy servant sleeping”; “She had departed but has left with us a happy memory of her many virtues”; “Lord at thy side let my place and portion be. I would in thy peace abide for thou lovest me.”

As we were returning to our van, we were drawn to another enclosure whose entrance was  an arbor shaded by a tree from which ornaments and wind chimes dangled. The site included a garden bench. Several stuffed toys lay atop the small grave which bore the marker “Jon Benet Patricia Ramsey.”

 

About Nan Mykel

I used to think I would be a child prodigy, but then I got old. Formerly I had fantasies of rubbing elbows with cultural and academic leaders but that did not come to pass because I did not become a cultural or academic leader or any other kind of leader, for that matter. I am not even an "Alpha Dog," a term learned from a friend who had to become "Alpha Dog" in order to influence her own pet. (When gazes lock, she never looks away.) For years I expected to become a published author, but in passing I could not avoid the fact that I had little to contribute to the world's bulging dumpsters. I'm embarrassed to report that I also considered my primary process artistic productions powerful, rather than mildly neurotic. Which is not to say that I disrespect myself, only that I am beginning to doubt my potential for making a mark on the world. If I focus on strict self discipline I may be able to keep my garbage removed on a weekly basis, to keep the kitty box changed, the clothes cleaned, the dog watered, fed and walked, but that just catches me up to the starting mark again. When writing I physically grapple with words, wrestling them from their indifference into attempted chunks of awareness. I sit heavily on my chair; I breathe in artificially cooled air; my ear drums note the tap tap of the keyboard and the steady uninterrupted sound of the air conditioner, What is that sound? The roar of the ocean from 30 yards away...Inside, my thoughts are are balls in an electronic game machine, bouncing hither and yon from lever to lever. I am a little grim and intent until I recall a dream related by a black man in the prison where I once worked. He said that when he was a small boy, back home, he dreamed he was standing on his front porch pissing, and that he suddenly found himself pissing stars...
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3 Responses to A Recovered Journal Memory, 2002

  1. Had to look her up. What an awful story!

    Liked by 1 person

  2. lynn__ says:

    I remember Jon Benet Ramsey’s case…I’m not sure if her murder was ever solved?

    Liked by 1 person

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