An Infinite Memory
(1142 words)
Father, I can no longer sleep; I sit here subjected to the contagious reverberation of a single yawn-- bouncing off of the walls of this cramped bedroom in this house which seems as far too large for us, as it almost always has been; In my head my thoughts seem scattered, spontaneous, even free, and yet-- I am so subconsciously focused on your dimly lit clock before me whose existence outlasts mine that I find myself slowly mimicking its consistent pattern of popping joints until my wretched body moves an inch by the steady frozen hour. My eyes are wide as they've ever been; they would never close if not for the fan that regulates my temperature whilst drying my eyes constantly like salt and slugs.
I remember your story, which you told me when I was young; the only one that you've ever told me. I remember the lonely boy on his island-which in mass was nearly as small as he, but was magnificently large and limitless in content. And, to the boy, the island was a tactile representation of his rampant mental self. As far as his memories could stretch and strain synapses to reach, he had been born there and was the only creature on his island that had any strand of memory at all. I remember how he passed the time-he was never taught to understand time to begin with, how he rejected any one religion; he accepted every experience, every overly-perceptive slip of the eye or ear as a simple truth. He had never developed a concept of contradiction; he always had to make room on his island for a mad rush of new ideas which coexisted in his busy inefficient world. I remember you speaking of closing or shutting or slamming or welding or sealing or locking a door-- which you said could be the one to lead to an infinite paradox universe of other doors, "snuffing the infinite" you called it. I remembered, shortly thereafter, seeing your mouth form vague and unfamiliar words which I could no longer hear; I would soon fall into a deep sleep, which I now envy.
How many times within the next week did I wake early to beg and plead and tug at your burnt-ironed pant leg as you were leaving the house for work where you would leave me stranded-marooned alone? I've spent more time by myself than in your company. Did you suspect that when my ship had wrecked I wouldn't swim to the nearest shore to claim my own island?
As a child I remember being alone one Friday night, long long after you had left for work (you had left the TV on to father me, and I immediately snuffed it out) and I set the dingy dinghy sails for my island of mental clarity (or fun, at the time), my oasis in a vast suburban desert. I had arrived and stayed all afternoon until I had exhausted myself entirely (perhaps less physically) and stumbled and tripped over a translucent root to a shallow unrewarding sleep. I did not dream at all that night. Surely you were at least somewhat aware, I had left you enough clues throughout the house: my castle of blocks which was left lying on your lonely island bed, my laundry basket sled at the bottom of the stairs, my lamp of a royal guard which now wore my shoes, the shurikens that I had folded in class scattered about the floor, my face painted with your purchased-rotten fruit.
The next day I woke up, not in a daze, but more clear and level headed than I ever had. It was Saturday and you had a welcoming bath going for me. I loved the sound of running water like the pounding of the water endlessly falling back into itself. I jumped in the tub without seeking you or your explanation, and I don't think that I ever would have gotten out if not for the ripe smell of blueberry pancakes that had crept under the bathroom door to tease my senses and challenge my plaster-brick will. Back then my appetite for food always did overpower my desire for cleanliness, didn't it Father?
For once I didn't ask you to continue your story, I was content with my own personal addition, and did not desire anything better. I was afraid too of what happens to the boy in the end, surely I did not want to hear the end, nobody truly wants to know the end of something that they love. Love favors ignorance over curiosity, I should ask mother about that-- though I'll save it for another time...
I remember now that it was you who brought it up that day, you had begun and startled me breaking a long comfortable silence as I was contentedly soaking up an ocean of drool in the most fittingly absorbent pancake that I had ever had the intense pleasure of wrapping my tongue around.
"So why haven't you asked today? I'd be surprised to find that you've lost interest." I was playing hard-to-get and sold you a terrible attempt at a look of disinterest. "Don't pretend. I'm sure that your mouth waters at the thought of merely discovering the name of you island idol." My mouth was, in fact, watering-I blamed it on the pancakes. "I think it's cute, if you ask me boy, running around acting the part of the character from such a simple story, and I'm certainly no troubadour. I could not appreciate the asinine tale that my father had told me as a boy. Although, I'm beginning to understand why he invariably tried." I swallowed the now tasteless mass of what used to be a quite beautiful and delicious pancake. "I have to say, I'm growing quite fond of telling it, of creating something original, again."
I relaxed, without any doubt that he would continue like a newly cracked dam. "It's irrelevant, if you have to know-- his name I mean, yes, it's completely irrelevant. If he had ever given himself a name it would have been change a thousand times over without warning, and he-the boy- was subjected to this." He paused. I had turned off all idle senses for the sake of focus. "Perhaps subjected is bit too strong. The boy had never offered care for the prevention of any changes, they occurred, and he accepted them with arms as wide as his imagination, he welcomed them like old friends."
...
Well father, I am older now, and I could be nowhere else-- I am writing to you from my own island; your old bed which now seems even lonelier than ever. My imagination seems more rampant and is (uniquely to me) far more believable than ever, and every images is growing more hostile.
