Signifying Pain Chapter Six

Chapter 6: Giotto’s Invisible Sheep: Lacanian Mirroring and Modeling in Walcott’s Another Life

Memory is as fixed as any object, and as easily lost. Although the object may be gone, however, it will not be abandoned: language is wrought by shaping words, as an object is shaped by the hand that it hollows (132).

I have recently been invited into my past, seeing myself and my life through the eyes of others who had disappeared and then returned, surprising me with the details that I do not carry any longer. Not everything they remember is something I have forgotten but I realize that much of it has been lost.

And then there are the details I recall. The curve of a lip. The shadows over an eye. The thing that embarrasses. The part that inspires pride. Above all else, I remember the dreams. Fingers on bass strings. Frustrations over expectations thwarted. The simple need for hearth and home. The urge for freedom.

Each person seems to come with a different aroma. Some more pungent, spicy, while others are mellow. Curry or cream, mushrooms or melon.

What is most remarkable is the timing of it all. Stirring up memories when I feel like I am letting go of so much in my life. I am making room in my life for new relationships because the old ones do not serve. And this is the time that even older ones come back to me; people I had thought were lost forever find me.

One in particular, whose name I sought after 9-11, desperate to not find anyone I knew “once upon a time.” There was another mutual person and I have asked after her. But what is so remarkable about this one person’s returns are the memories. So much more sweetness than I could have hoped for. Knowing that this person knew me at my absolute worst and can share some of my goodness with me is surprising. Precious. And makes me wonder if I have filtered others from my past through a haze of time and forgiveness.

And grace, because I think that has so much to do with it. When this person first approached me it was with an apology. I was flabbergasted. Not only did I believe I was the one in need of forgiveness but I had forgotten the injury. Not the facts of it so much as the hurt of it. Perhaps there is some numbed scar tissue there. Or maybe I have been hurt far more deeply since then and no longer consider this the greatest loss in my lifetime’s experiences.

More likely it boils down to this . . . I remember the places we ate, walking together, running into my cousin and making introductions, sharing drinks and cigarettes. I remember time alone, conversations. I remember the rooms we spent most of our time together, hiding from the world, listening to music, and closing our eyes to the truth.

And I remember love. Tears. But whatever pain seemed to me to be always mutually shared and I am so grateful to know that I was not wrong, that we both made mistakes, acknowledge these things, and have forgiven. Not each other, but ourselves.

For so long some memories were excruciatingly painful to hold. Eventually the pain lessened and the memory was dropped. Now, through the sharing of stories, some forgotten memories are being returned to me. Perhaps gilded but still welcome.