Remember the Pensieve from the “Harry Potter” books? It was a cauldron, of sorts, that the Headmaster of Hogwarts, Professor Dumbledore would use to extract the many thoughts from his head, and keep them there for use at a later time. As an alternative, he could pull a particular thought that he had in the past, in order to “relive” that moment in the future. I love the idea, and wish that I had one. The best that I can do is when I get a particularly strong memory and I want to remember it, I write it down. My pensieve is captured on many post-it notes, backs of envelopes, scraps of paper, and quite likely used cocktail napkins. I have to grab whatever is available when I am assaulted by whatever thought or memory creeps up from my unconscious mind, and demands to be “re-lived,” or when I get a particularly important idea…like my favorite words. I have decided to compile everything here, in order to keep everything all in one place, much like that charming old headmaster of the School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.
This entire blog is like a pensieve, just in digital form. Oooh,,..I like that. a “Digital Pensieve.” How geeky…and perfect.
I love to count pennies. They are my favorite thing to count. I used to love counting pennies with my dad when I was little. He showed me how to count by twos; my chubby little index and middle finger working like twins, pushing two pennies at a time off the edge of the table into my waiting palm. I would stack them up in tall towers, and he would magically fill the little sleeves of paper with exactly 50 pennies, readying them for the bank. The house would be relatively quiet, except for the ticking of the clock, and the “chink…chink….chink” of pennies falling two at a time.
tsunami……..erotic…….alabaster…..hibernate……baffle……pendulum…….”for the love of Pete”…..contagious…..mapless……petal…..”What the Dickens!”…deviation….literally…
If I plant my heart, it would grow into the creeping blue wisteria that grows all over the crumbling stone walls of the old country. Sometimes that wisteria takes decades before it blooms, but every year it just keeps spreading its vines until it’s so much a part of the wall that if you cut it down, the stone would topple.
If I peek under the tent of life, I hear the barkings of the circus folk, and the line for the freak show, and the smell of burnt popcorn makes me sneeze. Sometimes the thoughts of what’s on the other side of the tent are enough. Reality destroys the romanticism of what I might find. I like thinking about what could be, and what might be. I am not interested in what is.
My dream starts to kick and whinny, and it stares with eyes full of panic and shock. It doesn’t know where to go first, because the first taste of freedom, while exhilarating, is also stifling in its everythingness.
I write with the senile memory of reinvented youth and the sly smile of a rich 1930’s playboy.
I thank my lucky stars for…a good hair day…old worn soft cotton sheets….the smell of honeysuckle….pumpkin butter on warm bread…fake mustaches….cashmere….winks…ice cream cones…red nail polish…chocolate malts…sassy heels…the coo coo of the first morning dove of spring…dimples…
White, precise, and filled with rain
Floating above my mossy green house
No arms, no voice, no pencil for a poem.
Favorite <small> words
In Italian, stanza means a “little room of words.”