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Friday, February 8, 2013
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
Why?
Many times, on many days, throughout the passing of the years, I've asked myself the same question; Why? Why am I here? Why do I exist? What is my purpose? Does God, Jehova, Yaweh, Allah, whatever you choose to call him, have a plan for me? Do I matter? Does anyone care?
Yet, here I am. I live, I breathe, I think and reason, I feel, I have form and substance, and I take up space. This is undeniable. I am...here.
I had a beginning. Don't we all? My mother delivered me to the world on a frosty winter morning in 1951. Seems like ages ago! Funny, how I recollect so very little of my childhood. What memories I do have, come to me in brief outtakes, rather like short film clips, that have little sound, or emotion, and very little color.
For instance, I recall standing on wobbly legs within the confines of my crib. I was dressed in one of those curious little, one-piece, sleeper things, complete with reinforced feet, that Mom's love to stuff their babies into. I can't seem to see a color. Is that a yellow sleeper suit? Is it pink? Or white? All I am sure of is that I'm wearing the thing. It's warm, and dry, and feels soft against my skin. The room that surrounds my crib...it's made of some sort of wood, covered with a shiny,. brown paint...the room is awash with gray, murky shadows. The drapes are closed, the window blind pulled down to keep out the afternoon sunlight. No matter how hard I try, I can never make out any of the furnishings. There's a double bed, that much I am sure of, but I can say if they are any chests of drawers, tall wardrobes, chairs, or mirrors. I seem to know that the floor is carpeted, and the room is small, a bedroom that is part a flat or apartment.
What am I doing? That is all that I am really certain of. I'm a little tot, perhaps two years old, perhaps a tad younger, and I'm chewing on the railing of my crib. Chewing, biting, because the biting eases the soreness of my gums. As I'm chewing the the brown-painted railing, biting off flakes of paint, I am murmuring something like;
"Mum, Mum, Mum, Mum...
Am I calling for my mother? Or am I just making a sound for the sound's sake? Who knows?
It's just one of those memories that come to the forefront of my psyche every now and then. I don't recall anything more than that one, brief scene.
The next thing I seem to remember is a brief moment that takes place a sometime in the future. It's the future because I am older...four or maybe five years of age. It's night time, and I've managed to scramble out of the confines of that same, brown-painted, wooden crib. I know that I'm making my way along a dimly lit hall. There's a stairway off to my left, leading down to the apartment on the floor below ours. Just ahead is the living room. It is dark, but at the same time filled with luminous, flickering shadows, caused by the action taking place on a black and white TV set. My Mom and my older sister, Trudy, are sitting on the couch, engrossed in a movie. I'm always very sure about what movie I'm listening to from the hall. It's "The Thing" starring Kenneth Toby, made in 1951. The eerie music eminating from the TV scares the bejesus out of me. Anxiously, I use my tongue to jiggle a loose tooth, back and forth, while I stand there, clad in yet another of those befooted, sleeper-pajamma, one-piece thingies, I'm clutching my favorite blanket, which smells quite noticably of urine.
After a moment or two, my sister calls out to me;
"You might as well come in here. I can hear you out there, snapping and cracking your tooth!"
As I'm slowly making my way into that shadowy living room, my sister adds;
"And I bet you've got that smelly old blanket with you, too!"
Yet, here I am. I live, I breathe, I think and reason, I feel, I have form and substance, and I take up space. This is undeniable. I am...here.
I had a beginning. Don't we all? My mother delivered me to the world on a frosty winter morning in 1951. Seems like ages ago! Funny, how I recollect so very little of my childhood. What memories I do have, come to me in brief outtakes, rather like short film clips, that have little sound, or emotion, and very little color.
For instance, I recall standing on wobbly legs within the confines of my crib. I was dressed in one of those curious little, one-piece, sleeper things, complete with reinforced feet, that Mom's love to stuff their babies into. I can't seem to see a color. Is that a yellow sleeper suit? Is it pink? Or white? All I am sure of is that I'm wearing the thing. It's warm, and dry, and feels soft against my skin. The room that surrounds my crib...it's made of some sort of wood, covered with a shiny,. brown paint...the room is awash with gray, murky shadows. The drapes are closed, the window blind pulled down to keep out the afternoon sunlight. No matter how hard I try, I can never make out any of the furnishings. There's a double bed, that much I am sure of, but I can say if they are any chests of drawers, tall wardrobes, chairs, or mirrors. I seem to know that the floor is carpeted, and the room is small, a bedroom that is part a flat or apartment.
What am I doing? That is all that I am really certain of. I'm a little tot, perhaps two years old, perhaps a tad younger, and I'm chewing on the railing of my crib. Chewing, biting, because the biting eases the soreness of my gums. As I'm chewing the the brown-painted railing, biting off flakes of paint, I am murmuring something like;
"Mum, Mum, Mum, Mum...
Am I calling for my mother? Or am I just making a sound for the sound's sake? Who knows?
It's just one of those memories that come to the forefront of my psyche every now and then. I don't recall anything more than that one, brief scene.
The next thing I seem to remember is a brief moment that takes place a sometime in the future. It's the future because I am older...four or maybe five years of age. It's night time, and I've managed to scramble out of the confines of that same, brown-painted, wooden crib. I know that I'm making my way along a dimly lit hall. There's a stairway off to my left, leading down to the apartment on the floor below ours. Just ahead is the living room. It is dark, but at the same time filled with luminous, flickering shadows, caused by the action taking place on a black and white TV set. My Mom and my older sister, Trudy, are sitting on the couch, engrossed in a movie. I'm always very sure about what movie I'm listening to from the hall. It's "The Thing" starring Kenneth Toby, made in 1951. The eerie music eminating from the TV scares the bejesus out of me. Anxiously, I use my tongue to jiggle a loose tooth, back and forth, while I stand there, clad in yet another of those befooted, sleeper-pajamma, one-piece thingies, I'm clutching my favorite blanket, which smells quite noticably of urine.
After a moment or two, my sister calls out to me;
"You might as well come in here. I can hear you out there, snapping and cracking your tooth!"
As I'm slowly making my way into that shadowy living room, my sister adds;
"And I bet you've got that smelly old blanket with you, too!"
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