Yes, there is such a place, believe me. Words hide themselves and cannot be found. Perhaps it’s me who hides from words. Words hunt for me day and night but cannot find. Because I hide well in a secret place. When I try to find some for my writing later, it is my turn to hunt and cannot find. I am not alone. You know what I mean if you do some writing yourself too. When you want the words they are just not there. When they come, they come often in the middle of the night when you feel too tired and your eyes are too heavy to remain open, or in dreams that are really vivid but cannot be recalled when you wake.
I try today to ponder where the place of hiding is. Perhaps I can just go there and open the cabinet or the former days’ dust-covered journals under my celestial coffee table and there they are, neatly piled and ready for my recall, recovery and restoration. I try many ways of locating them in my past. I try inventing a way to record dreams that cannot be recalled when awake. One way is to dream the same dream again. Like some of my childhood dreams. They formed the substance of many of my earlier stories when I was young and fresh and happy and full of good dreams. Some sources of recall are people I used to love and value with whom I have lost contact many years ago when I was still a very young person. They are not there now. We are scattered all over the world. The original town has gone too. I am told the river, the sea the sky, the fishes, the forest, the air, the sights, the smell, the taste, the colors have all changed too. How can that be?
I fall back on words from books that I used to read and still recall. Here are two quotes from one of my all time favorites.
“Memories, even your most precious ones, fade surprisingly quickly. But I don’t go along with that. The memories I value most, I don’t ever see them fading.”
― Kazuo Ishiguro,
“That was the only time, as I stood there, looking at that strange rubbish, feeling the wind coming across those empty fields, that I started to imagine just a little fantasy thing, because this was Norfolk after all, and it was only a couple of weeks since I’d lost him. I was thinking about the rubbish, the flapping plastic in the branches, the shore-line of odd stuff caught along the fencing, and I half-closed my eyes and imagined this was the spot where everything I’d ever lost since my childhood had washed up, and I was now standing here in front of it, and if I waited long enough, a tiny figure would appear on the horizon across the field, and gradually get larger until I’d see it was Tommy, and he’d wave, maybe even call. The fantasy never got beyond that –I didn’t let it– and though the tears rolled down my face, I wasn’t sobbing or out of control. I just waited a bit, then turned back to the car, to drive off to wherever it was I was supposed to be.”
― Kazuo Ishiguro,