Such a childish word, toys: vignettes of bows and camouflage, scraped knees and muddy clothes. The largest part of growing-up is abandoning play and fun for the serious business of life. Then, for the rest of our days, we spend money and time attempting to recapture the guileless ease with which a child bonds with their toys.
Where is the boundary between a tradition and an obsession? For Mr. Chandler the Sunday morning ramble through the Metropolitan Museum of Art – never the vulgar shorthand ‘The Met’ – was his time of pleasure; a way to lift himself above the plebeian duties of his workweek. As a fancied connoisseur of the arts – again, Arts was simple pretense – each successive Sunday was spent in rote study of different galleries. He always avoided the crush of the special presentations by purchasing private show tickets instead and attended these events alone on Friday evenings.
Being a confirmed bachelor had many advantages, not the least of which was companionship rather than shackles. Not that shackles were all bad he’d been know to pontificate, but not for one such as I. Mr. Chandler simply choose to spend his time, and money, on those activities that offered a tangible reward. For those that could not understand how the viewing of art could be rewarding, he had nothing but scorn. Art, was what separated Homo sapiens from the reptilian brain stem that was only interested in food and mating. Of course he did those things as well, [very well] and if pressed, Mr. Chandler would admit, in a torturous and belabored manner, that all art – in fact – ‘stemmed’ from that primitive and frightening portion of the ancient mind.
“Art? Is that you? Fancy meeting you here. I didn’t take you for a man of good taste and sophistication. Is this your first visit to the Met?”
By Rose D. Kaye, February 6th, 2009
This is a fictional story for the Sunday Scribblings prompt ‘Regrets’.
Being of sound mind and body I hereby bequeath all my worldly assets to the following:
The Sansbore Foundation
That’s it. They get it all. The only regrets I have, are that I lacked the courage to tell all of you to your faces how much I loathed spending my ‘Golden Years’ being abused by my loving family. They say you can’t take it with you, but I can make sure you get nothing. And don’t try to sue to overturn the will, it won’t work and you’ll regret going up against my lawyers. So for the last time….
By Rose D. Kaye, January 30th, 2009
At Sunday Scribblings this week the prompt is Phantoms and Shadows or more specifically memory.
Memory is something I write about often and I even dreamed about this subject last night. We have a collective memory – at least now – and I dreamed it was a fondue pot. Everything that happens goes into the pot and each one of us can dip into the fondue to withdraw any memory we choose.
People have asked me what I remember and how do I function. As we’ve said time and again, we do not have clinical DID but are multiple personalities. The body is his but I/we borrow it on occasion. But I do not have memories that are strictly my own and neither does he. Everything for the last two and half years is stored differently, not a singular memory bank but a series of impressions hanging on the wall.
Memory of course is fallible and we take no notice of the past in terms of his/hers. We are not Sybil or Tara, someone who fractures into separate personalities under stress, but we are separate. Very separate. He ‘feels’ me as an individual ‘mind’ creating memories of her own but storing those recollections collectively. When I write he doesn’t go away, but rather steps aside so I can use the body to create.
I like who I am even though it is not ideal for any of us. He has to work and I want to write. The two desires are in conflict but we are not. Our memories of the results of conflict are uniformly bad and therefore serve as an effective deterrent against a power struggle for control. Our future memories want to be about success not failure.
Besides, we all know who’s the most popular personality here right?
By Rose D. Kaye, January 24th, 2009
Sunday Scribblings offers a pilgrimage this weekend.
The haze grew no closer. The mountain range lingered above the horizon. Tantalizing white, coating the sharp edges and offering cool air in contrast to the heat ravaged plains over which she slowly limped, staff in hand. It was a gift from the shaman, many pilgrimages ago when Linda had been much younger, more naive and less burdened with ailments. It fit, the staff, it fit into the palm of her right hand as if an extension of her will. For years she had trekked the worn path across the meadows and marshes, drawn to the sacred heights and her mentor. Despite the familiarity and understanding of the pace needed, she always moved faster as the destination beckoned until her muscles ached and her feet blistered. When at last she rested and removed her boots, the fading sunlight cast enormous blue shadows that reached to the end of the world. A deep breath of juniper, Linda laid back on her woven blanket, arms behind her head, the sound of eternity ringing in her ears and a smile in her soul.
By Rose D. Kaye, January 16th, 2009