May 29, 2011

Memoir (to be continued)


I was born in 1963 and childhood, naturally, followed. Having been asked to produce a memoir of my early years despite a poor memory and a general distaste for the childhood memories of my contemporaries, I will nevertheless attempt a book-length review of my early life.

Perhaps my current dislike for struggle comes from having had to do so from such an early age. Colic produced a massive release of stress hormones, and studies show cortisol blood level remain high for some months and years afterward.

And yet who could dismiss those early memories? Having little sense of “this happened when I was five, and that happened when I was six” I can only peg a general feel for the time with the music associated with it. I remember Gary Lewis and the Playboys singing “This Diamond Ring”; if that was popular in 1967, then I can remember when I was four.

My early literary influences were viewed uncritically. I read “A Light in the Forest”, which sort of encapsulated the-then fetish for Native American nobility (recall the conscience of the nation was then a tearful Indian concerning the environment) and the rancidness of Western civilization. At 25, I was donating copies of “A Light” to childrens' libraries and buying copies for my nieces and nephews. There was a sense in which something that was “of me” was inherently good and thus worth passing on. Such self-patriotism - my favorites right or wrong - now seem to strike the wrong note.


It's beyond the scope of this post to construct a day-by-day account of the year I was seven or eight or nine. But I will try, at the risk of trying the reader's patience.

The grass held a special kind of dew that morning when...

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