“They’re Calling it a Rock”

Who are They? What is the it they have named Rock, and why?

I have no idea now, but at some point in my recent past it was a statement worth scribbling down and tucking into my notebook. And with some import it seems, being written all on its own, on an otherwise blank piece of paper. Usually my thoughts-deemed-worth-sharing have to bunk up with other quips and sprites of wisdom, some dated and others running stag. Sometimes encircled, boxed, or merely set-off from each other with a few harried strokes. All waiting patiently to be dressed up in a comfy collection of words and sent out the door.

As it happens, this is not the only declaration with forgotten ancestry that I am finding. They have risen like slow moving zombies, snuffed by, then invigorated in, the dark neglect of my over-stuffed folder. I have given them their own section because I am having a hard time letting them go, other than the few I threw out in a fit of pique (an act I mildly regret). Kept not just because they might have meant something important, for I am well aware of how unimportant some saved thoughts turn out to be; especially when plucked and sheaved while meandering around in chemically altered states. Which I have done, from time to time.

No, each of these untethered notes is a thin and silent catalyst for the process of remembering itself. I like that tickle of recollection, when an unrecognized phrase or memento brings a rusty old memory rolling to surface. I can almost feel the very points of my synapses spark while it comes into place, creeping piece after piece or tumbling in with a flash. I’m thinking this might be a valuable exercise for my aging brain.

Someday I’ll remember this Rock, and who They are, but until then I’ll just leave this collection of words here to go on their merry way.