Recollect

Brainstorming like the back of my hand/ Recollect/Recall/Tribute

"You can't go home again."

I lived in the same house for 19 years of my life, and I was homeschooled for 15 of those years. That is 5, 475 days that I could explore the three acres of our homestead, and beyond.  I knew each and every tree, rock, and plant that grew within the stone-wall boundaries of my home. I captured and studied most of the animals that are native to the area. I gathered my share of scrapes, scratches, prickles, blisters, and splinters. These acres were filled with the tools that I used to build my store of knowledge and experience, my imagination, and my future. (An indelible mark)

But memories fade, lessons are forgotten, and places change. The world moves on. Moving on is a healthy part of growing up. For most people, becoming an adult means leaving your home—and crafting another. I have left my home, outgrown those acres, and learned new lessons. But my home has also left me.

I want to move on, but I do not want to forget, to neglect to attribute the weight that this place had in shaping my life. Spurred by the recent industrial development of my home in Susquehanna county, I am filled with the need to catalog, capture, remember, and celebrate this place that will never be again what it was to me as a child.

(before the tankers pummel it all to dust/before the backhoes dig it up/and the methane poisons the water/and silica clouds the air)

This was my home, a place that I knew “like the back of my hand.” I created this place/I imagined this place to life.

And now, “home” is reduced to collection of objects… the things I need, the things I keep, the things I throw away.

Objects hold echoes. They elicit the emotion of the past. They are shells that call to us – singing of what was and what could be. Some are well-loved, some neutral, and some broken, discarded, forgotten. Some once were living.

The loneliness of forgotten objects speaks to me. It reminds me of a time when I had a story for each blade of grass, each container tossed aside. It reminds me that once, I was lonely too. Here I will capture the things I have forgotten; the memories which slowly float to the surface, or hide, wither, and die.

WHEN
Does it pay to be dedicated?
I have countless times
that testify to No.
we reward the slackers.
I tried so hard to
be good
do what i should
work hard
excel
keep up
be on time
stay on track
listen
go above and beyond
and it never matters
recognition is just empty words
and nothing ever comes of it-- so
why should I try?
just say Fuck It like everybody else
and
i won't have to work so hard
and i'll get everything I wanted
just because i stayed up late
and scribbled something
say, "woops, i didn't do it
I didn't have time
I didn't pay attention."
I HAVE ANOTHER CHANCE
and i won't care at all
--that's the way to succeed, sweetheart.

it is the failure to acknowledge

everything is remembered incorrectly
and now I only remember remembering
a photograph.

Deferring the now,
the essence of signification.

You say softly
Well, she's dying
A painful prospect remembering

seemingly very late to realize
this is what it is--