Remembering Myself

Every act of creation is a worhipful act toward God. Writing a word on a page is an act of creation. In a sense it is also an act of Revolution but also of Tradition. Let us say writing is the acto of the Traditional Revolutionary. It is the weapon of choice for all true revolutionaries down through the centuries. Writing is an act in which thought and action combine. Often through the action, thought is enhanced.

When one reaches a point where writing becomes tedious and topics seem meaningless the key is to keep writing, the hand movong. Start with a topic in the very present moment. The present moment is that perfect combination of all our senses and mind working together. There is no memory involved. Or is there??

Does not the present moment, any moment, conjure up countless memories?? A word can create a thousand pictures, what of a book, or a song?? Any action one takes is bound to be something that one has done in the past. The present may contain different elements. But some sensation in the present moment opens up an entire past world in which possibilities that seem to have past one by a still open.

It is in this way, perhaps, that our memories give us hope. Hope, as Aristotle wrote, is a waking dream. Hope is an expectation, usually unfullfilled, that the wrong can still be righted, that time in its ubiquity has somehow granted an exception for us, that we may walk again, that our dreams can appear to us in our waking eyes and not only our sleeping thoughts.

Can life then simply be an engineering exercise in which we input thought and effort and heart and a commensurate output is produced? I think not. In our memories lurks the key to our redemption and destruction. This constitutes and forms the unpredictabilities of life. These uncertainties constitute the sum total of the memory of Humankind. Each one of us acts upon the ghosts of our memories, the past creating the future in a wheel where the prevalence of spontanaity and surprise is guaranteed by the individuality of our memories, of our minds.

Memory is an essential and dangerous necessity that continually breaks the stale crust of the desire to control the life of this world.