A Token, A Remembrance, An Echo of Melody

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Because I’m not inclined to have a defined path, prepare yourself to leave with uncertainty, much in the same way you climbed from your bed this morning. You assumed the floor would still lie below to meet your feet as you started your day. No matter your plan or itinerary, the day you’re living doesn’t align with what greeted you in your slumber last night. This post is primarily for one person. Even so, the truth is wherever you find it.

This isn’t about “The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows,” although it rips a webpage from its book. If you’re not familiar with it, I envy your initial discovery. The entries with video are sublime. Here’s a link to the introductory video: Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows. Some of the ideas contained therein are familiar with you already if you know me. Words like onism, morii, zenosyne and most of all, sonder. Their existence is in part responsible for my joy of language and aversion to anything which presupposes a rigidity in its structure or usage. It gave me greater power in knowing that I own this language and its forms are not preordained.

I have a custom metal piece of bird artwork above my back door, one attuned to the concept of onism. Once you grasp the idea, you’ll see why it gives me pause from time to time as I find myself trapped in the cocoon of a typical and confining day, especially as I peer through the slats of the window on the door. We’re always peering through slats into the external world; it’s just that we forget that we’re doing it. This post also isn’t so much about onism or existential moments.

I’ve created several words myself. Disvidisia might be my favorite. Observing people who complain of boredom or express disinterest in ideas or works people share evokes this feeling in me with regularity. This post isn’t about that, either, although it authentically encompasses the reaction many people will have to it.

Given enough time and depth of experience, some people and places ebb and flow in their importance. The tumblers which lock and prevent our understanding find themselves without a connection for years – and one day, when our eyes are averted and our minds distracted, an insight or epiphany strikes. More often than not, by the time we understand what we’ve missed or misunderstood, the cliché of ‘too late’ pains us. It’s difficult to fight realizations which germinate in our own minds.

As for what this post is about, it’s a response to a flash of recognition a few days ago. While we’ve diluted the meaning of the word token, I realized that I needed to make one. In its strongest form, a token is a tiny portion of the original and a keepsake harkening to a greater whole. Once you’ve read this post, go to this link: Avenoir. You’ll learn a new word and perhaps peer inward for a moment. Toward the end, at about three minutes, you might see or feel the token of connection that I’m referencing. For those with strong family ties, especially ones which bond with you even after a death, I suspect that the recognition of the images in your mind will break you into pieces – even if just for a moment or in the tiniest of ways.

There are no new things to see, just our own reflections as we scramble to remember what brought us to these places, even as some of those on the journey with us transform into echoes and invisible companions. We can live in reverse through memory if we can row our boats while seated in the wrong direction.

I’ve made you such a token, for inscrutable reasons that are elusive in their complexity and simple in their expression. The picture in this post isn’t the token, although if you examine it carefully you might find a clue. It should arrive in the next few days.

With remembrance.

Avenoir.

 

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