How do I begin such a remarkable and exceptional story? Will it appear insignificant to you? Perhaps, but certainly not to me, expressly considering my tale of jeremiad and amount of time/respect/life/memory and heart I have lost over the many years. [Does this mean I am getting old?]< ?xml:namespace prefix = o ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office" />
I will begin ab ovo — at the very beginning.
The story enters upon the outstretched arms of a dark canvas, swallowing everything within its cool, black and boisterous embrace. Alone in my house I decided to take part in the screening of yet another supposedly ill-fashioned film, with little expectation as has become the norm in modern times.
The screen flashed and bellowed up the title of “A.I.” [Artificial Intelligence], a movie directed by Steven Spielberg. The underlying premise of the film’s concept seemingly desires to decipher the human spirit and its unforgiving and afflictive persistence at destroying what it chooses either not to understand or not to accept.
Foremost, please disregard anything you may have been informed about this movie, for first assimilated acumens of this screen play are usually based upon judgmental flack primarily based upon the “quontatating image mind-saga” [the phrase I prefer I to insinuate] that the moving picture business has become. Furthermore, I implore you to brush aside the supposed parallel semblances in this intriguing flick that may reflect upon my own personal story. Tis not A.I. directly, per say, which inflicted such an immediate emotional response upon me, rather indirectly the dialogue and manner with which it was delivered upon the wide screen, stimulated me. A.I. was definitely uncaricature of most any movie that came before it.
What exactly am I getting at, you wonder?
While watching A.I., I slowly became haunted……aroused by some alternate reality deep within the recesses of my mind that I could not place my finger on. That is until the climatic ending [call it whatever you wish] that left me bewildered and astounded beyond words. Breathless, I assumed the identity of an utterly surprised but mute mime; for words cannot express, even in the slightest, the overwhelming emotion that captivated me.
A most impressive phenomenon occupied a single, tiny part of my consciousness.
Consequently becoming awakened.
The dramatic ending of A.I. lifted a single memory up and out of the dark depths of my soul from which it had been hibernating, believed to be lost in chaos, forever. Upon discovery of this revelation I was self-struck by peremptory woolgathering accompanied by colossal fascination and awe, much like an ignorant fool who has just become enlightened……. [: -}…… Much like the the first time I became aware of my existence; how for the first time I realised that I was a sentient human being in a perceptible world.
Without warning or provocation I was swept back to an earlier time when I stood only 3ft 10in tall or so. Back to a time when I kvelled in the beauty of my exquisite captivation of yeasty innocence and naivety, reflected upon HER radiant face. Back to a less worrisome time….bathed in delectation…...florescence, avoiding the desecration of time and space if forced through a black hole only to reveal itself in reverse rumination How capable am I in rationalizing such an extraordinarily intense feeling conjoined with the unbearable suffering of sorrow?
…………>>>>>>
“How do I become a real live boy?”
“If I am a real boy, I can go back and she will love me then.”
“…….i do love you, I have always loved you……”
…………>>>>>>
I stopped the movie just before the credits and stepped outside into the pale light of the moon, the swift murmur of the breeze and the cool air I rapidly drew into my lungs.
Why does something so minute, so compelling, happen to me while I am weak and full of extemporaneous disorientation?
While I am most vulnerable?
The soft caress of grass needles against my hardened skin afforded me little comfort, nevertheless I settled in a recumbent position near the middle of my back lawn, which spread around the backyard like a tangled wire plugged directly into my cerebral cortex. Placing my hands firmly upon the ground I slowly began to brush the grass, taking care not to corrupt it. As I began to feel myself slowly fall into a comatose like state, the small strings of grass began to feel concurrent to the strands of hair on my son’s head when I brush and prod his hair. Immediately I began to cry, tears sweeping like the heartfelt release of the heavens absorbed in frantic trepidation. The sound of my tears rushed my ears so quickly I mistook them for the quiet rustle of the tiny stream just 10 yards from where I sat. The fervor built up inside of me until I lost all logical apprehension of the surrounding environment, falling further than the air integrated in the night sky.
Erstwhile………..
Being a mild and warm spring day we both indulged ourselves in the comfort of kaki pants and 100% cotton colored t-shirts. [You know the kind…. with a small/single alligator leveled at our left breasts, the only representative mark of its creator.] She atop the first downward echelon of the large wooden porch, reading, and i in propinquity upon the very last. [There were only 4 to begin with.] I recall looking back over my shoulder at her in a continuous regaled manner, expecting her to catch me if I happened to tip over and fall. Each time she smiled back harmoniously at my silly game.
Meanwhile……….
We both were also busy playing with our Siamese kitten that went by the name of CaoKu. The kitten had recently been born for she was small, timid and extremely playful in nature.
This day was no exception.
What struck me with eerie enthrallment was the placement of the markings on her fur. Her tan coat of fur was decorated with black and white stripes all over her body, which formed various psychedelic designs which resembled the markings of a cheetah or Celtic tattoo.
Today Caoku was acting particularly peculiar, that goes without saying…….
Every time she would come up to me, I would toss here gently back down the stairs onto the grass below. Each time I would toss her down, she would immediately get “situated” and return to me only to be tossed, yet again, back down onto the grass. Eventually this exercise became a playful little game between her and me. Caoku even began to purr quite loudly and with each “turn” my hands would pulsate as I grabbed her, her body acknowledging the ceaseless enjoyment of our little game.
However, SHE, did not seem to be enjoying the innocent game as well as Caoku and I.
She turned to me and said, “Now quit that before you hurt her.”
“But mommy, she likes it”, I explained to her by first explaining to her our little game and then handing Caoku to her so that she could “feel” her approval.
“So she does……”, she said upon realizing the truth.
As with most children I quickly became bored with this game in only a few short moments, so I begged her for a story.
Without pause, her creative mind went to work.
She began to narrate a story about a distant time in an enchanted faraway place, characterized by strange creatures and other fantasy elements. Her voice was engaging, engulfing me in loving wonder. All consuming in its haste to further my awareness of its undying passion and intent. As she spoke to me, I smiled back in riveting procession, focused on every slight movement of her comely face. I decided to move closer to her, up to her step just above me, between her knees, where she held me. [For the life of me though I cannot remember her whole story, which is why I desire to leave the specifics out, perhaps until another time when I may be able to remember the misplaced narrative.]
I smiled at her…….”smiling all the way”, she used to say.
Placing my hands upon her thigh I interrupted her.
“Mommy, why am I different than the other boys? Does being different make you love me less?”
Interrupting me without a hint of hesitation, she exclaimed….
“Silly, don’t you know? You are the most magnificent creation of all time, above and beyond all others in this world and all the stars combined. If you were to count the stars and then add this much [she gestured at some undetermined measurement by holding out your arms as wide as she could] it still would not compare to how much I love you. Those other boys don’t seem to understand, like mommy does, that you are unique and wonderful in how special you are.
“Huh, mommy….”, my loquacious lips uttered, full of confusion.
“Why do you ask such things”, she said.
“Because my hair is crazy and funny and my skin is really, really white, and I am different than most of the other kids”, I told her.
“Don’t worry your poor little head about such silly talk”, she explained, “they obviously refuse to see or understand that you are the most wonderful, most cherished, most beloved and perfect son any mother could ever hope and dream for!”
“You are simply beautiful, darling, just the way you are.”
Her dulcet words struck a fierce blow upon my wee beating heart, that of a single strike of lightning, her mettle more powerful than any living being since. So easily she turned my worry and concern into understanding and acceptance of her kind words, rather than dwell upon those credulous words of other silly children.
“Thank you mommy, I love you……yes…..yes….. I do, more than all the stars in the sky”, I muttered, quite maffick towards her affection.
“And I you, little Christophe……”, her sonorous voice returned.
The preceding statement may seem a tad cliché, but…….
To this day I acknowledge the qualm that my mother has been the only person (woman or otherwise, living or dead) that has truly loved me, trenchant in both sincerity and unconditionality. Without sounding pathetic, thus palliating such an almighty statement, I believe I am hardly alone expressing such sentiments, recognizing this only after considering this long sheathed memory, reminisce from a time long ago when my mother was younger than I am now.
You do not choose love, love is not a choice. An auspicious truth seemingly lost on many who inhabit this planet.
“Come out of your dream”…..I kept telling myself, all the while still sitting upon the soft palette of grass. Obviously this tremendous reflection had numbed my senses, dulled my surroundings and scattered time and space.
How late was it anyway?
I am ever so grateful for the uncanny abilities of the human mind, conscious or not……my heart……broken or not. It is this ideal of the human under the aegis of something higher which seems to me to provide the strongest counterpressure against the fragmentation and barbarization of our world and allows me to to bear misfortunes with equanimity.
You have no idea how wonderful such conflicting emotions, such sudden and erratic release of grief and anxiety mixed with polyonymous passion, feels. Rare tears, such are these, which have not been spilled since the last days of my dire pursuit of Tara [years ago], are a blessing indeed……
And here I was beginning to believe that the verisimilitude of my apathy had consumed my soul and scattered my deepest, most impenetrable emotions into an explosive abyss.
Am I living within a potemkin village shrouded in my autochthonous neologism?
[You eternally raffish young doyen and pretentious free spirit; whom seeks every opportunity to flout convention and challenge authority, devoid of hackneyed bromide…….or so I wish.]
Perchance, if i can gather my strength I will attempt to visit the place where her spirit was laid to rest. [for her ashes were scattered in the wind among the divine valley's of the dakota's]
