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Why Memoir
Why Memoir?
This may be a strange compound question from me, as I have been capturing a story of my own for a few years. I think I’ve figured out a little more about why they are written, they seem to be therapeutic for the writer. In my case it just happened. Loss cracked me open and the words came out. I started smearing these memories on paper and while watching them dry I found that preservation made me feel little better. Discovery became compulsion and grew. The spirit of my dog led me down this new path and I just kept going…
Why do people want to read Memoir?
Often I wonder why do strangers read other people’s life stories. Many are tragic and share deeply painful moments. Are readers looking for a similar experience while hoping to gain some insight? Find hope? Learn something? Follow someone back from an edge? Does a common thread need to pull them together?
For me these questions will hang on lines – like yesterday’s laundry in today’s rain, waiting for tomorrow.
Here & There
He’s in the Paint
Heavy brushed strokes
Dried in time
Outline the windows and doors
Trace the floors
Change in light
He’s in the paint
Alone
He stops to stare at the large word painted on an old brick building
Steel-blue letters with sharp black edges and gray shadowing
Silent breeze plays with his hair
Rain touches his face
Smiling – he walks on
Alone
In Three’s
My Grandma used to say something along the lines of “It happens in Three’s” – she believed it.
It is a phrase repeated by some when loss strikes… Why do we say things like this, is it a superstition carried-over from some ancient grasp for acceptance? Is there a power of three that some people cling to? Is it real?
I never really gave it much thought.
I wonder what Grandma would say now that one of her son’s has passed-away, the third branch of my family tree to die in the last sixty days.
“They go in Three’s?”
Contrast & Contradiction
Frankenstein Heart
Shattered Photos
Broken bits honed in time
Tarnished and dented heart shaped box
Wrapped in scarred, weathered, leaking human leather
Living in a bramble of learned thorns and tangle of earned rusty barbed wire
Dark Place
Like a cellar dug under an old farm house – this familiar place is dark and dank
Sadness drips down walls near loneliness piled in corners
Tired thoughts and lost moments eat timeless air
He sits on the bottom stair holding a soggy box filled with related questions
How long will he stay?
Can Bryan Write? 