Ghosts of Memory

Strange revisiting sites of youth. The light, all the same. Those essential subliminal textures that give feelings of unspeakable rootedness. The whole of layers upon it all, discipline and disenchantment, horror and hypocrisy.

The mundane of it all: confession and rites secularism hasn’t yet wholly consumed. And the plainness as well: seventh grade and uniforms, asininity unbecoming of the hifalutin aspirations of spiritual purity. And yet, unquestioningly accepted from the same who laugh at the possibility of any god by a different name.

Fun fact: ’twas once shepherded by a priest now globally renowned for exorcism, no joke. Google father Gary Thomas. And to know the groundedness of a person’s past self and warmth for a playground conversation.

Not so much are those missed. Not so much is anything missed. Alienation even within a tribe, and never a reasonable notion of explanation offered. That thought and a reply would be treachery. What a way to be. Still recovering but to live a few moments in the past as present is a reminder that one can objectify the past: it becomes as s foreign land, in which we watch the self we recollect being but which too is too distant and carry any visceral connection. I do fondly remember the after-services cake tho.