Memories of Form

The origin story (although not really a story) of a curious explorer.

I remember endless afternoons bathing in sunshine, exploring unknown territories in the backyard jungle, being inherently curious about the way things were underneath the calm visage that dwelt on the surface layer of things. It was not that I distrusted the joyful veneer of the pathways through grasses and weeds of various character, but felt, rather, a faceless presence that would let itself be known at secret times, a manifestation that flirted with those of curious mind, promising, however playfully, some hint of resolution which might allow an explorer some rest of an evening: knowing that he was on some path towards great revelation, or grounds for continued astonishment as the case may be. There was much that I would discover, though it would be years before I realised that I was not looking for answers, and that there was no end to the path. Yet even then I wondered if such was the case.

What lived underneath that vast canopy of ivy, I imagined, that resembled a forest to my shrunken projections? I could roam for days within days in that treacherous terrain, observing stick insects and vast colonies of ants raising armies, while the occasional beetle or queen bee would chase me away in fear. I remember that sometimes we’d survey �" in the leafy distance �" vast empires and networks of tunnels, beyond the exotic fields of colour-smeared flowers of various shapes, and plants that looked alien for all of their place in nature. We’d climb there finally, and explore the caverns that writhed their way underneath the house in which I lay my head to sleep (most nights). How surprising and delightful, I recall, was this discovery of a whole new plane of existence which I could call my home. So hidden and ignored that I could call it mine, my secret strange domain.

I remember learning in those dirt covered passages great secrets of life and death: in an instant I learned, on one occasion, that some newly acquired toys we’d discovered were the skeletal artefacts that remained from a family of mice, too weak or cold to survive the townhouse winter. Or there was the time that we discovered a kitty and her litter, tiny things that seemed impossible and unable to exist, to grow and survive removed from their life-giver, who, while still connected to them was now of separate body.

There were more mysteries, some revealed, others created in those timeless days and nights of exploration, like the chilling cold felt in the back rooms where I supposed the sun just never reached. Or studying the complexion of birds nests, and wondering how such tapestries could be woven by use of beak alone, and without the hands upon which I relied so strongly for my explorations in the world. I remember spending hours within minutes, gazing at the enormous shady tree out back, and contemplating whether it was in fact the perfect tree as I had often suspected. My certainty was only allayed by comparison with the tree out front, whose branches we had used to climb its height, and who would sprout purple flowers to look pretty in the spring.

I sometimes wonder now about how much I do and don’t remember, and I suppose no one can ever be wholly sure of what is truth or fact of any matter, or what mythology of thought and purpose. I suppose I feel that it is an origin story nevertheless, and I would not be the person I am, nor in the position I am to recall, if I did not remember it in this way.

And for this I can only smile.

Author's Note

I feel perhaps sometimes the language is a little too formal and stuffy. But at other times, I feel it is clear and straight to the point. Some feedback on this would be helpful.

Reviews

[Samuel Dickens]

Excellent content and very well written. So much is familiar. I guess curious boys all around the world and of different generations will find similar adventures in their back yards. On the language--it did seem just a bit, as you say, stuffy and formal, but it still worked for me. It's written from the perspective that you are today, and not the youngster. You could try writing it from the child's perspective, though, just to see which you prefer.

[Eudaimoniac]

Thanks Sam. I hadn't thought of that, but it would make for a very interesting change of pace. I might just try it at some point.