It is impossible to know for sure what will trigger the past, an object that will pique an involuntary memory of what has lapsed. Willing taxes, but does not purchase anything that one would call memory. It can’t be done. Memory is an affect, not an act of agency. It is hidden, a signet ring or stamp or figure in the ever-expanding universe that surrounds us, to the inciting impression it left inside us. Only haphazardly do the twain meet and transform. An absence is intuited until the presence of what one can not look for.
In early Christian theology, the crucifixion figured only indirectly, a presupposition to resurrection. Its significance was not lost on everyone. The centurion at the foot of the cross knew of its import. “Truly this is man was a son of God,” he said, Jesus having given up the ghost.
They threw rocks over their shoulders. The flood had ravished the land and Deucalion and Pyrrha were the sole survivors. They threw rocks — which they called “mother bones” to repeople the landscape.
Adonis was borne of a bitter myrrh tree.
Lycaon became a werewolf for offering cannibalised meat to Zeus.
Each morning I rise a stranger, transformed overnight, and must stumble about the world I inhabit touching this, being shaped by that, until all the dust and clay of sleep is shaken from me and I emerge, return as I am known.
As if having been absent, ever so briefly.