And the Memory Remains

wow, an 18 hour flight was pretty tiring - and this is a pretty bad way to begin my first blog entry from the US, but what the hell... yea things are sure guna be different from now on, mostly I'm worried about others than for myself, my folks back home - never was too good feeling sorry for myself - but I sure as hell feel sorry for them... wish I could have done something... ahh, it's nice to feel human at times.

anyway, I'm hoping Guitar Centre at New Jersey is guna have something nice in store for me... a new axe. now, where would my blog entries be without my outbursts of half-assed lame poetry... at any rate, thinking about home and my past life at altitudes of 20,000 feet provided sufficient juice to squeeze out something...

here's to all the folks back home...

I remember...
I remember waking up.
My childhood seems like those confounding lil' pieces of a jigsaw puzzle.
Sometimes, those pieces connect - those small worlds of colour, and fragmented images, to form a story... each time, a new revelation, of knowledge lost, forgotten - as childhood faded away
(only preserved as pictures in a worn out photo album)
I remember gazing up at kites flying in the beautiful golden autumn sky - nature's glorified killers in all their splendour.
What would it have been to soar free with them?
and yes, I remember the faint strains of the drums beating, forming an unspoken littany... "pujo esheche"
Why I also remember Christmas Eve... one of those special nights, spent decorating the tree and then looking longingly at the night sky, until I would fall asleep - and my father would quitely come sneak in a big gift wrapped box by my pillow...
I remember slow listless summer afternoons spent in reading... of adventure and magick, and some faraway enchanted tree.

innocence... yes I remember first kiss, the taste of it still lingers... a taste of divinity perhaps?
(if such a thing is possible)
and I remember those whispered phone calls at night, ending in promises of a different life.
I remember hanging out with the guys, playing guitar, shooting the shit, being cool.
Faces old and new, etched in my brain forever... yes I remember them too.
And I still remember those times, that I cried - and what joy it was to just feel...

And now those memories, neatly tucked away in some corner of my brain, forlorn in silence, they ask me the same question: "Do you remember how to forget?"