Monday, July 6, 2009

incredibly, beckett

and it came back also to my mind, as sleep stole over it again, that my nights were moonless and the moon foreign, to my nights, so that i had never seen, drifting past the window, carrying me back to other nights, other moons, this moon i had just seen, i had forgotten who i was (excusably) and spoken of myself as i would have of another, if i had been compelled to speak of another. yes it sometimes happens and will sometimes happen again that i forget who i am and strut before my eyes, like a stranger. then i see the sky different from what it is and the earth too takes on false colours. it looks like rest, it is not, i vanish happy in that alien light, which must have once been mine, i am willing to believe it, then the anguish of return, i won't say where, i can't, to absence perhaps, you must return, that's all i know, it's misery to stay, misery to go.

i had suffered for a long time from the illusion
that remembering inhibited one's experience.
now the illusion is almost my only memory--
and that i am cold and that i have been cold for
a long time and that this coldness was brought
on gradually by an illusion. yet, it is likely that i
will not be cold later. then, i will remember
something else and not this. i will have
forgotten the story to which i currently refer.
each person has her own theater. i propose this
as an exhibit or a symptom of my personal stage.

carla harryman, memory play