Where Memories Are Stored

From the Editor

 

 

First:
Businessmen in tribal masks.
Fearful cell phone call.
Crime or no crime?

Next:
Sleeping baby – inverted – held by a businessman in a ritual – sleeps peacefully anyway.
Dark, little prince.

I dream on:
Miniature fleshy tree.
Attached where the faucet would be behind a sink as in the old kitchen in my childhood home.

I look at the tree over the top of the counter, at child height.
The tree: white and pink, also with a fresh green hue and wrinkles in its surface, somewhat like old bark, but so alive and fresh.
Of gelatinous, semi-translucent material with darkened pink lines along the outer surface of the wrinkles.
Near the trunk of the tree stands a perfect, miniature collie dog, an inch long!
It moves?
I bark at it, one clear sharp bark.
It barks, runs toward me, stops within some energy field of the trunk, waiting, alert.
I am amazed at its minute perfection, thrilled at the wonder of its being alive and real and perfect in every detail.
I can barely take it in – I get to see such a thing – such a thing exists.
My heart and mind full of wonder and excitement.

Around the outside edge of the branches of the tree are fish suspended in an environment attached to the tree in which they cruise around the periphery, as far away from the trunk as is possible without becoming detached.
Sentient, aware, they move as fish do, undisturbed, slowly, not directly engaging, knowing something.

The tree is so vulnerable, no hard shell.
Anyone could reach out and crush its flesh so easily.
That is also the wonder of it – living, vulnerable, perfect, available, delicate, complex, mysterious, visible, in an ordinary place.

This is a gift dream, in recalling it, re-experiencing it and its wonder and pleasure.

Could the tree also be a map of my brain?
Plastic. Alive.

I wonder where memories are stored.

Recently, after this dream, I dreamed in sensual detail of bathing my infant son – sights and sensations in clear presence.
Another gift.
A gate is opening.

Where is memory stored?

Some say it depends on how old the memory is.
Some say memory is stored in individual neurons.
The route to the memory can be complicated, and perhaps changing.

And the collie roams near the trunk of something amazing
and the collie is a callee, and so am I.
We bark to each other.
The bark of the tree is evidence of vulnerability and life and growth and mystery. The collie’s bark protecting my vulnerable bark.

The fish eye me.
They are swimming at the edge of my tree of knowledge.
Peripheral fish patrol.
Peripheral nervous system – ganglia outside the protection of the skull and spine.
Message relay bodies.
Years ago, my son content in my lap, I called dreamy fish my home-defining swimmers – emotion messengers, body to mind – awakening.

A tree, and a dog and fish respond to my fearful cell phone call about tribal-masked businessmen.
My cells phoned.
What offices have I given to my office tower men?
What do I delegate to them to do with the sleeping prince baby?
I call my collie callee.
And spend time at the base of the tree, my ganglia fish swimming at eye height.
I height.
Child-I height.
See.
Relays amid old and young hopes and fears heighten my dog awareness.
I stand in wonder and excitation, my plastic brain growing.

What is this business, man?

Recall.
Distant memories not so far away.

 

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