Between the Spaces of Time

My Mind is Full of Memories
Images
Like a movie
That plays out its reruns
Over and over
And we relive those
Episodes
Within our fantasies
Bringing to the past
A new interpretation
In the present
Reinforcing a future
With blow-out-of-proportion
Memories
It takes a hurricane
To blow it away
And send it back to its
Miniscule place in its life span
To diminish it
And clear the way
To embrace this life
We now have

6/28

I got another letter today and it was from Mark. Mark was a phantom. He appeared in and out of my life but never stayed long enough. He was like the sun that shone brightly but was quickly followed by the night. He was heavy. He carried scars from wounds that I think are still bleeding under the surface of the thick skin that disguises it. He went into the military and was sent to Viet Nam. Since he came back from Viet Nam he seemed like a stranger, giving in to far away moments. He was very remote. He served in the Marines combat troops in Vietnam, at China Beach to defend the American air base at Da Nang. I’m sure he saw a lot of things that he can’t talk about. When he came back, he was a different person. I remember once when we were walking downtown. Things seemed nice. It was a relaxing evening and we were strolling along, hand in hand. Suddenly two fire trucks jolted passed us sounding their loud alarms and flashing their lights. Mark jumped behind the bushes that framed the projects. He held his hands over his head and ears. He stood like that for about 15 minutes, obviously shaken and in a place that was somewhere else. Mark was crude and abrasive. He had no time for the niceties of a society that mirrored comfort and conspicuous consumption. He could not identify with anything that did not contain pain and anger. I knew him before when we were kids and he was full of hopes and dreams and thought that he had a bright future. He was arrogant then and sure of himself. But this isn’t Mark anymore. This is what war does to you. It causes a decomposition of the human heart and spirit. Mark didn’t talk much anymore either. He lived in a fantasy world; in his own reality. Mark became my father. He was the G.I. who saw too much and could not carry those images in a world that didn’t understand. He was in a place called “Somewhere Else.”