Somewhere in the present, within the mansion of memory, there is a temple set well within a dark antipodean forest – the kind you approach bare foot from a great distance – solemnly and with ceremony, then between the tall tree trunks your eyes are drawn to a broad grey shadow which holds its ground, steadier and taller than the trees, it’s dark blue shadow cuts through the dank forest air, larger, stronger and more imposing – closer, ever closer until the trees fall away behind you. Getting to its strong metal-studded, dark oak heavy wooden doors - unlocked with only one key which you have attached to a heavy chain around your neck – brushing aside the cobwebs which have captured with in their tendrils dead leaves and bugs you place the key within - turning it with difficulty you hear the lock fall and you are able to turn the heavy iron ring door knob and walking in, close the door, the low mid-morning sun behind you.
It has been too long since you visited here – fearful that the energy contained in this sacred place has picked up the sense of guilt and amplified it and the darkness shakes you . It has been a long time – over four thousand years and yet you are still here – and being here you realise he never left you. Carrying his image like a memory chip buried deep under your skin – always referring to it when you looked at other strangers faces, the faces in the meeting halls, the markets of country towns – catching a glance of the men riding their horses passed you on the highways of the empire – the soldiers in armour going to practice or preparing for war – the young priests scurrying through the back lanes from martins or vespers – no he is not here, that is not him, he is not here, that is not him – when will he come again – where is here now? Will he find me? Will I find him? Is he waiting for me? Should I keep looking? – No, the last question does not get asked – for fear of the answer.
In the solitude of time you reflect on the faded pictures of the things you did together – were there so few – and why are they so fragmented? I am sure we did this after that and yet there is no connection now between the moments – that is what they are reduced too moments – like a wonderful shirt, not worn to many times and yet you treasured it – though you cared for it you were helpless to see its slow imperceptible disintegration over endless time – first a button magically disappears, a cuff frays, a collar breaks and then a sleave rips or a yoke falls away – soon it becomes so damaged all you have is a snatch of cloth, a strip of coloured fabric – thin and pale, and yet the memory is always strong.
It has been too long since you visited here – fearful that the energy contained in this sacred place has picked up the sense of guilt and amplified it and the darkness shakes you . It has been a long time – over four thousand years and yet you are still here – and being here you realise he never left you. Carrying his image like a memory chip buried deep under your skin – always referring to it when you looked at other strangers faces, the faces in the meeting halls, the markets of country towns – catching a glance of the men riding their horses passed you on the highways of the empire – the soldiers in armour going to practice or preparing for war – the young priests scurrying through the back lanes from martins or vespers – no he is not here, that is not him, he is not here, that is not him – when will he come again – where is here now? Will he find me? Will I find him? Is he waiting for me? Should I keep looking? – No, the last question does not get asked – for fear of the answer.
In the solitude of time you reflect on the faded pictures of the things you did together – were there so few – and why are they so fragmented? I am sure we did this after that and yet there is no connection now between the moments – that is what they are reduced too moments – like a wonderful shirt, not worn to many times and yet you treasured it – though you cared for it you were helpless to see its slow imperceptible disintegration over endless time – first a button magically disappears, a cuff frays, a collar breaks and then a sleave rips or a yoke falls away – soon it becomes so damaged all you have is a snatch of cloth, a strip of coloured fabric – thin and pale, and yet the memory is always strong.
