I am just a cowboy...


despite the smiley, sparkly happy-cheeky trying to be good me, i can never forget the razors' edge, the hanging thread – the huddled masses struggling to be quiet inside me.

sitting outside on my porch for a few minutes, a bright sunny spring day that almost seems unreal. i've been poring through my entire photo collection, culling, organizing and throwing away multiple kitchen garbage bags full of envelopes, photos, negatives* and the past is on me like a rabid monkey right now.

the exterior world looks like an old photograph of another place, and only the blackbirds bitching in the tops of the trees remind me that this is in fact my reality. part of me feels good, seeing old beloved faces again, but there are photos of my father, very sick... there are photos of Lu from all the months of her whole life. Lu in the snow, at the beach, asleep in the back of my car, curled up with kitten George, brawling with kitten George... there are pictures of Cat who crossed the bridge in 2000 – Luna's first cat. :) there are pictures of Robbie, and friends who i barely even remember... there are pictures of me that i barely even remember, and not because i was inebriated, but because i wasn't actually there. a part of me was, my face, my hands, my body, some section of my brain; but my soul, my whole self was in deep hiding, for many years of my life. bits of me took turns pretending to be all of me, all the time, and i'm not sure that a million photographs and two lifetimes worth of work could put me back together again, much less all the kings' horses and men...

one of the replicant** traits that hit home with me especially was the collecting of their precious photos. those photographs, worth risking their lives for, made their nonexistent pasts real. obviously, if there are pictures of something, it happened, yes? and i bet everyone has experienced the feeling of seeing a photo and realizing that you had forgotten that moment completely – but the photo brings instant recall, even down to smells and sounds...

a lot of my past is that way, more of a story to me than a memory. so much that surrounds each moment remembered – and each photo – is a morass of misery, depression, fear and true insanity. this multiplicity, this memory distance, this is the face of that illness. the good side is that seeing these pictures reminds me of how far i've pulled and dragged myself (not to mention how far i've been pulled, dragged and toted by others...) but that's also the bad side too. every to has a from, and despite even the most galactic distance of some memories, they never completely disappear.

luckily there are only a few pictures of my childhood, before i got a camera of my own. the few that i have, i treasure. most were taken by people that i loved and trusted (aunt sue, charlyn...) in some of the few places where i had happy times (grandmas' and aunt sues') but there are some that are hard to see, because of the ghosts in our eyes, or because we remember the days surrounding that particular photograph. school pictures and studio pictures are the worst. my brother can't stand to look at them at all.

i think that one of the ways we manage is by making the past into a story, one in which we are ultimately the heroes, and then living a life on our own as adults that is like a story too. A grand adventure story, with lots of exciting, interesting and odd characters and strange but compelling plot twists and turns. A story in which we ultimately prove that we are the heroes.

i know i must seem to think that i am the center of the universe... actually, i suppose that is true, i do. but i only believe that i am the center of mine. i assume and hope that each person is the center of their own universe, and that they feel the same way. i know that i am only the star of the sam show, and i bring everything i can to that 'show'. i also assume that i am a player or extra in everyone else's plot, and that i have a duty to do my best in their script. i am certainly delighted with the characters that people my own, heroes, villains, extras, all***. it may be wrong to think of life this way, but for the life of me, i can't think why. i never, ever forget the blackbirds, the poor people of myanmar and the gulf coast and next door. it is those things that remind me most of my duty, of the part i play in my own life and the lives of others. it is because of the razor's edge and the hanging thread that i must sparkle, and the show must go on.

thank you all for the great scripts and roles. (the soundtrack is awesome, too :)
much love,

-s

* my conscience hurts me for this. i wish i could recycle all of them – and i have chosen many for that purpose – but there are several reasons why i can't. i also comfort myself knowing that this is a once-in-a-lifetime disposal, like that of a car. this is my first and last time to have to do this chore.

**"I've seen things you people wouldn't believe. Attack ships on fire off the shoulder of Orion. I watched C-beams glitter in the dark near the Tannhauser gate. All those moments will be lost in time, like tears in rain. Time to die."

***a toast to you, inspiring-Bright, squeertike, leaf-flight! *clink!*