at one time i was quite impressed by the machinations of the rote memory, especially when displayed by those who seemingly possessed the ability to absorb and squeeze out information like sponges. these have always been folks who were champions of trivial pursuits or who demonstrated an aptitude that matched their unsuspecting opponents on game shows.
but now, amongst so many other things, i accept in retrospect how much of this was merely amusement, just as the fascinating mystery and magic of love inevitably becomes less the gift from above and more the mundane and predictable people of life that we all eventually meet, love and leave.
these once were intimidating memories now mean little compared to what i now perceive as most meaningful to me: a curious mind that questions everything, an inclination to create and be creative, an original native who does not know boundaries or borders or that by someone else's orders that she was not supposed to roam at will across the still moments of time alone, atop mountains where no one owns anything, where everyone is free to gaze and ponder the wonder of the amazing panorama of life.
a decade ago i wrote, when there were those who could recite poetry and pop songs so readily, that "my lack of memory breeds my creativity." back then it was half an excuse, half truth. now, it is all but true, and i believe that i would almost prefer not to remember anything that anyone else has rendered before me. i have learned that it is much more important to earn the knowledge by discovery and uncovering or creating of debating or tasting all the issues and the elements and the results, as well as the raw fruits of my obsessive-maniacal-meticulous and reclusive labor.
the art of love
l.m