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Showing posts from December, 2020

The Art of Memory

  The Art of Memory When we can traverse the plains of memory, stopping at each fire to warm ourselves before we start again on our journey, there is a world inside a world that keeps going on to infinity.  If we are lucky enough to hear the eternal melody that is at work in these moments, many fine hours may come upon us.   But sometimes the solace and hospitality are too much and we live with our new found companions, taking them along wherever we go, as a shadow upon our eyes.  The memories of Thoreau, or the early frontier narratives of Indian captivity, are something that I have felt eternal and unchangeable in human nature, not for any piece of information they have given me, but because my melancholy has always found peace in their environment.  For some the world is old or the world is new, but the point is that we tend to look at it through memory.  One memorable event confounds all future celebrations; we remember so as not to forget, but we do not remember that we are able t

A Poet's Journal: November 13th, 2014

  November 13th, 2014 The trees are different; it is gray and windy; that feeling everyone knows of autumn.  It seems as if it comes all at once, like an experience that we forget the details to, but never the feeling, nor the flash of color, nor the fading light.  That is why it is so easy to be lost among the trees today; they are shades of themselves, and part of an ideal gone astray. Douglas Thornton