Until the objects of erasure become deeply personal, they were just things. Or places. Or people. Or the combination of people and places and experiences that defined childhood. Or so many other fragments of one’s life history that can be touched or felt only through photographs or memories. Sometimes, the emptiness left by erasure is welcome: the bully who moved away—the father whose permanent departure opened a window of relief—the poverty that one experienced, but did not cause—the poisonous atmosphere that cultivated bigotry. Other emptiness, though, left aching vacuums, impossible to fill: deaths in the family—close friends who suddenly withdrew—the childhood home torn down and replaced by a a convenience store or a quick oil change shop—the abrupt transition from believing one had good friends to realizing they considered the relationship a casual, dispensable acquaintanceship. The palpable emptiness left by erasures leaves wounds. The wounds may heal into scars or they may refuse to form a transitional scab, leaving evidence that some vague, long-ago experiences were injuries that never healed. I could fill a book with explorations of my own erasures and the wounds left behind. But that might suggest the erasures were more consequential than they really were. Yet even the barely visible blemish, left by a shallow and superficial wound, is a mark…a scar…evidence of change wrought by experience. Differentiating between significant and insignificant erasures is difficult. Unless the effects of an erasure are clearly observable and obviously painful, perhaps it is better to leave them alone and let them adjust to a life that does not need them any more.
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Our greatest pretenses are built up not to hide the evil and the ugly in us, but our emptiness. The hardest thing to hide is something that is not there.
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People who bite the hand that feeds them usually lick the boot that kicks them.~ Eric Hoffer ~
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As I sit here, my eyes closed and my head bowed slightly, I could fall asleep quite easily. But I slept almost 12 hours last night, after going to bed early around 7 p.m. and waking at about 6:30 a.m. I think I may be sleeping just to avoid the dullness of being awake. Television holds no interest. Reading will remain difficult until I have my eye repaired. And I am not sure reading will hold my attention long enough to warrant picking up a book. Aches and pains and other health-related matters, none sufficiently bad enough to merit medical intervention, are still annoying enough to make me think I might ask for something to numb the experiences. A mild ear ache, constantly dripping nose that bleeds in response to blowing it, headache, and various other physical complaints make me want, more and more, to be anesthetized for a few days just to get a respite from those damn annoyances. There, I’ve just verified it; I want to sleep so I do not have to experience the negatives of being awake. If I would just stop the chemo—or go back to different drugs—I suspect all my unpleasant symptoms would be gone within a week or two. But that respite probably would defeat the purpose of the treatments, so I shall persist for the moment. I might try to convince the docs to give me morphine, though…doses just strong enough to alleviate my mild pains and cause me to enjoy uninterrupted sleep. That effort, of course, would be futile. They would never go for it. Ach.
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If I had the energy to blow the leaves and acorns off my driveway, I would. Some people reading that sentence might think I have lost my mind…that I am suggesting I would bend down close to the concrete and huff and puff with a powerful breath to clear the detritus fallen from the trees. No, I may have lost my mind, but not to that extent. I would use a leaf-blower that emits a loud, obnoxious noise to do the work. Carrying the blower, though, and walking around the driveway would require more energy than I have. So, I’ll wait until the yard guys return; they will do it faster and more completely than I would, anyway. I might, though, blow the leaves and acorns off the back deck, though. Or I may not. No need to tidy up for guests.
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I radiate anger. Whether the world is the object of my anger or my rage is aimed at my reaction to the world are questions whose answers eludes me.
