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The last time I saw my grandfather he was setting fire to his journals.
He had been keeping a journal in overstuffed Mead spiral notebooks since
he was a child, which also substituted for a photo album, a calendar, a
clipbook. Burning the lot would be at least a weekend project at the
rate he was going, examining each page before tearing it from the spiral
metal and dropping it into the flames. I came out and stared at him, and
he shot me a look like I was trying to teach grass how to walk. “I’m not
burning ‘em all, you dolt. I’m just thinning it out some. You have to
make a little mystery.”
I told him I didn’t understand, didn’t see why posterity shouldn’t be
rewarded with as complete a record as possible. He told me the events in
a life are trivial, inflated with the breath of context and sympathy
only as it suits our vanity, our mirror-vain flattery. It is the gap,
and the silence, and the breath between words where the greatness lies,
for that is where we can stretch as far as we allow ourselves, set
adrift to wonder, wander, build atop what was once just the smallest of
irrelevant details.
“This is what you leave them, when you leave. Questions which have no
answer, or no answer that will satisfy, so they will turn the memory
over in their hands like a cold river stone, the lightest of suggestive
sketches as to a truth greater than the truth of our small lives lived
like rodents, money-hungry, fuck-hungry, noise-hungry. Give them
stillness, silence and darkness and they will remember you forever,
which is critical, as you only stay in the second world as long as you
are remembered in the first, and if all you leave them is the meager
facts, your life in the second world will be a shrill re-enactment of
the days they may remember. Open the space to mystery, and the second
world is to be aflot on a lattice of your loved one’s dreams.”
I continued staring at him, and told him he should come in out of the
cold.
“Someday,” he said to me, but not to me, to some other me that I would
become, “someday you’ll see I’m right.”
(12:13.05.19.2005) [/ana] #