Haunted by Memory

The Lie

I sat on the couch in the living room, fingers chattering away on my keyboard. Just half an hour left in my daily writing exercise. I paused, grasping for words, as so often happens. And, in the quiet of the pause -- I heard a voice.

I cocked my head, thinking it was Aunt Sharon. I'd kind of assumed she had lain down for a nap, but . . . no. Definitely not her voice. It was soft, cooing, slightly silly. I stood and walked into the office. No one there.

I could still hear the voice, though, and babyish laughter, like the echoes of a young mother teasing her infant. But I couldn't make out specific words. Then the sounds faded away. Nothing. I rubbed my ears, thoroughly shaken, and returned to my nest on the couch.

Just as I sat, I was jerked to my feet again -- more voices came, now from the kitchen. Although I still couldn't make out words, I knew as I drew closer that it was a young mother talking to her elementary-aged son. But all sounds of mother and son faded as I reached the kitchen, and then more sounds kicked up, calling from the garage.

I went out, looked at the disused skateboards hung on the wall. A barrel of deflated soccer-balls sat underneath them, abandoned for years. This time, in the garage, I heard the sound of a car purring to life, and a mother -- an older version of the same mother, I thought -- saying something about college. She sounded tearful.

I went back to my couch. I started to write. And half an hour later, as my aunt greeted me after her nap, I placed the voice. The voice of a mother with grown children.

The Truth

While I was sitting on the couch today, I really did hear the voices of a young mother and her infant. It was terrifying, especially since I'd thought I was alone in the house. Every time I tried to listen, the voices would fade. But it wasn't any specter of memory waiting for me in the office -- it was my aunt, on facebook, watching videos of a friend playing with her new baby.

But have you ever noticed how a home seems haunted by memories? I think it's more powerful when you return to a place after years away. The bathroom with the red splotch where your brother threw up strawberries on the wall. The hallway where you wrestled with your brother, and he bit you. The closet where you hid for hours to scare your sister.

I find it especially potent when I return to my old home in Nigeria. Any stories or memories that you'd care to share in the comments?

Lies about Lightning

So if I'm really going to do this Daily Lie thing, I guess I'd better get started, huh? Funny how that works.

The Lie

I rubbed my eyes, then continued scrolling on my laptop, perusing a blog post. I was reading The Monday Heritic, specifically a post about espousing opinions nicely. Outside, lighting cracked the gray sky and thunder rattled the windows. Rain drummed fingers on the river flowing beside my aunt and uncle's house.

"Unplug your laptop, Luke." I remembered Mom always saying that during thunderstorms. Of course, that was back home in Africa, with faulty wiring and real storms. The same problem couldn't be here.

BOOM!

My head jerked up, eyes widening, lips pulling into a silent "O. Quicker than an angry opinion, electricity leapt from the electric socket and jittered down my computer chord, winding and interlacing and spinning into my laptop . . . the screen flared . . . a POP, then everything went black!

Aunt Sharon shook me awake.

"Errrmmm. Kardashummum's ish shtupieed!"

"Ron, he's waking up! Luke, what did you say?"

"I don' ker aboud David Letterman'sh finalesh!"

"What say?"

"Ah!" My eyes popped open. Everything was blurry. But more than the returning vision, facts, ideas, and online convo threads churned through my mind. It all came back: a post about opinions, lightning, and now, I had superpowers! I was . . . Opinion Man, Champion of Truth, Battler of Bigots, Right about Everything! At least, it would've been nice, wouldn't it?

The Truth

Obviously, I'm not always right. Most times I eat my words as a side to my humble pie, after I take my foot out of my mouth. You really should read Amy Green's blog post, linked above. Wise words, much more meaningful than a lie about lightning. The truth was that there was a storm outside my aunt and uncle's house, but I actually did unplug my laptop, thanks to memories of mom. A shame. If not, I really might have superpowers!

face-lift

You've probably noticed the massive face-lift I gave to this blog, unless you're as blind as this:

If you are that blind, the face-lift comment was probably insensitive. But on the upside, you'll never know it!

Anyway, I hope you enjoy the changes to the blog. They were much needed, and help to dull my embarrassment at the horribly unprofessional look I had with this blog. A social-media guru I am not. I'm sure I'm still doing many things wrong, but hopefully I'm getting closer . . . ?

You may enjoy looking at some of the sections I added. They're all explained when you click on the tabs. Hopefully, more is to come in the future days. Thanks for reading! Any comments or suggestions on the new look?

Patrick Rothfuss kisses a llama.

Wherein one of my favorite author's kisses a llama. For charity.

Also, here's a link to HIS blog post about it:Pat kissing llamas

Silent Night

So, my college did a thing. Actually, we've been doing it for thirty years; a pretty cool thing, in fact. If I have my facts straight, ESPN has actually named it as a top-ten college sports traditions in America, and they send guys to film it each year, which is pretty cool. My residence floor usually gets special notice by the camera people, cause we're crazy.

What is the thing? It's called Silent Night, a Taylor tradition where, for the basketball game played at home during the weekend before finals, practically EVERY student on campus shows up to spectate, most in full costume . . . and no one says anything. Nope; for ten points, it's completely silent. No clapping, no cheering, no drama. BUT YOU SHOULD SEE THAT TENTH POINT. Craziness ensues, with students mobbing the courts and everyone screaming and they actually pause the game for us. Eventually we return to the sidelines, but we don't stop screaming before the end of the game, at which time we all file over to the dining commons for Christmas cookies and karaoke, and President Habecker's wife reads us the story of Christ's birth.

Here's a cbs sports article about Silent Night: http://www.cbssports.com/collegebasketball/eye-on-college-basketball/24869579/taylor-universitys-silent-night-gives-us-another-memorable-moment.
In the videos, you might notice a swarm of yellow-and-black clad figures buzzing the court . . . that's my floor. Naw, we're not firemen; we're supposed to be bees. We're fun like that.

Anyway, it's a pretty cool tradition. Along with the craziness, this year a group of students also held up signs saying #blacklivesmatter, in recognition of all that's going on in Ferguson. I'm proud of my school for using the publicity to present a stance on things, and also to enjoy themselves and enjoy the insanity.

And here's a longer video of last year's Silent Night

the Word

the Word 

There once was a man with a silver sword 

Who whispered an almost forgotten word. 

The word grew loud though the man didn’t shout 

Soon other men tasted it inside their mouths. 

The word spread wide like a poisonous cough 

Till the king of the land had heard it enough. 

He built a great fire and burnt the black word 

And he slaughtered the man with the silver sword. 

But the word whispered soft from among the flames 

Twisted with smoke, all faded and gray. 

Throughout the wide kingdom, the word was heard 

And no man could kill that absurd little word. 

The word became twisted the further it grew 

It rotted and blistered near all the way through. 

But the green heart remained with the sap of the word 

Till along one day came a silver sword. 

It pierced the word to its greenwood heart 

And discerned the root of the word’s many parts. 

And they say that the word will be whispered again 

By the man at the desk with the silver pen.

Dactyl

No, not that kind of Dactyl. Thanks to Alex Mellen (http://amediting.blogspot.com/) for reminding me to make this pun.

Have I told you about my Creative Writing class? It's wonderful. Professor Bowman is one of my favorites; a youngish man (mid 30's?) with messy brown hair swept off to one side, who wears worn suit-jackets with jeans and beige button-downs. Sometimes, the jackets have elbow patches. Those are my favorite days.

He's a poet who also knows about other forms of writing, especially creative nonfiction, so the poetry sections are always especially interesting. Today, he discussed various elements of rhyme and meter. All the professor's chatter inspired my muse to start musing, so, while he talked, I scribbled a quick poem in my notebook, which went something like this:

Dance on the graves of the ocean of snakes as they wriggle about your knees,
Shoot down the moon on the guardian's tomb in the forest without any trees.

Take all the fire of the hearthrug's desire as you turn it all cold and gray,
And hear ye the bleat of the murderous sheep while the shepherd is away.

"I want you to write a structured poem," Professor Bowman said, interrupting my scribblings. "Use one of the poetic forms I just talked about. Every time I give this exercise, some students say that working with a structure is really frustrating for them, and others say that it's really freeing."

As I observed the lines I'd just jotted down, a sneaking suspicion took me. So, I measured the rhythm, and found that, sure enough, I'd already completed the exercise. The poem I'd just written was a dactyl, with a few deviant syllables.

Dactyls take the form of one stressed syllable followed by two unstressed syllables, such as the word longitude. Lon-gi-tude. Get it? So, in my poem (/ stands for stressed; ^ stands for unstressed):

      /      ^   ^        /      ^   ^    /    ^   ^      /      ^     ^      /    ^    ^   /      ^        ^
Dance on the graves of the ocean of snakes as they wriggle about your knees,

Get it now? I think that's correct, except the last line of the poem isn't a correct dactyl, I don't think, and I adjusted the other lines very slightly to fit. But you get the idea. I find it interesting that I used this form without intending it, or even knowing what it was. Seems as if the ideas of meter and rhythm are wired into us, created by the proliferation of music and poetry that we're bombarded with on a daily basis.