Dear Life, Each day, besides journaling in the morning and at night, I write two, timed 30-minute sessions, unedited, usually mid-afternoon. The first session is longhand with ink pen in a notebook. I consider this a primer, saying to my brain, “Okay, it’s time to empty whatever is noodling around in you so we can down to the real work of writing”. The second session is tapping the keys of the computer. This writing is for a book I am collaborating on with my sister, Arlene Lawrence. Recently, I wrote this piece on Memory. Here it is:Yours Truly, Pamela Rose
6.17.2022 Start 5:35pm Finish 5:58pm
Memory is selective, has its own time zones, its own emotional containers for content, its own veils of context, its own casting of characters, its own suggestions of story lines.
Memory is its own galaxy of black holes where all memory disappears, its own constellations of story plots, its own white light blinding truth and non-truths, its own orbiting planets, moons, and suns that create a universe and multiple universes, real or not real.
Memory is its own reality creating other realities that spark yet another reality that can be completely contrary to the reality it just certified because memory is subjective, personal, private, and one can even say, imaginary.
Memory is its own servant reliant upon being directed, its own compulsive task-master, its own obsessive omnipresent power, its own energy source and stream of consciousness.
Pamela Markoya ©