Skimming Along - Jan 9 2026

 

Skimming Along

Jan 9 2026

Sometimes, a memory appears;

like a bloated body

half decomposed,

rising to the surface

on gas-filled innards

reeking of fish.

How many years has it lingered

inscribed in some neuron’s secret code?

Submerged

beneath a tall column of cells

in some deep dark sulcus

of some cortical well;

like a benthic fish 

with vestigial eyes

deprived too long of light.

So I’m relieved, in way

that my failure to recollect

is not one of loss

but retrieval. 

It means my whole life could be archived there;

preserved

minute-to-minute

in the chemical signatures

of billions of cortical cells, 

as if a documentary crew

had been dogging my every move. 

So that all I need to revisit the past

is a diving bell

and long rubber hose

running all the way back from the depths.

Too bad 

its the bad ones that are stickiest,

written in bold

and anchored by strong emotion.

Too bad

they keep drawing us back,

hardened by exposure

with their connections reinforced. 

Or do I unknowingly

make things up,

filling in the gaps

with confabulation 

and educated guesses?

Which more and more, I’m prone to do

as retrieval falters

and my memory goes;

quietly down the drain

like dirty bathwater

when a toe dislodges the plug.

Either way, entropy rules,

and memory will end

just as everything does

in its lowest energy state.

Like the static buzz

tuning from station to station;

the Big Bang

down to white noise

after 14 billion years.

The slow death of forgetfulness

  . . . until we forget ourselves, 

because memory

is really all we are.

I am a deep sea diver

exploring my past,

goggles fogging up

and air running short.

If I surface too fast

I’ll succumb to the bends,

linger too long

run out of air.

I should have stayed on the surface,

breathing in the fresh sea air

and yawning in a balmy sun.

The art of forgetting,

skimming along in the salty spray

without a backward glance.