Tuesday, September 17, 2013

Memoir Paradox, post 3 of Lohbado's Memoir

Lohbado painting, acrylic on canvas

Lohbado was a sixty-year old retired man, who two episodes ago sat down to write his fictionalized memoir. He had no intension of exposing foibles or airing dirty laundry. He viewed his memoir as an opportunity to explore the nature of being alive, even if such an exploration turned out to be meandering and often non-conceptual... meaning things happened which didn’t always make sense.

Each situation requires so much detailed elaboration. Each story spreads out in an endless network. However, the beauty of the computer age and unlimited storage is that anyone could write anything. It doesn’t have to be pretty or sweet.

And it doesn’t have to be mean or aggressive. Lohbado wasn’t into aggression. It’s strange to be caught between the obsession to speak, but the near impossibility of saying anything. In fact, Lohbado said less and less each day. He went for days on end without uttering a word. Eventually, his heart would begin to ache. So then he’d start talking, first to himself, then on the phone to friends.

He developed a routine of phoning Joe Blow and Ernie Shines every day. Bye the way, this is a work of fiction. So please don’t assume Lohbado is talking about you. He’s processing memory and experience, then inventing characters and stories. Lohbado was not interested in revealing the personal habits of his friends and family.

Some of the background information about Lohbado has already been presented in older posts of Club Morono. Maybe Lohbado will repeat some of the stories. A handful of story fragments serve as motifs to hold the memoir together, a synthetic unity... woo wee!

Ok, here’s the memoir paradox: the urge to speak, but then tripping over words. It’s actually lots of fun, like monkeys in a playhouse, ring around the rosie. Lohbado’s attempt to sort out and clarify psychic strands clouded the situation and made it needlessly complicated. Lohbado wanted it to be simple. He paused a moment to spread memories and images out on the magic carpet and have a look.

Peter Stumps, son of Reverend Stonehenge Stumps and Rosemary Stumps, in the process of trying to figure out what appeared to be going on, became Lohbado. Lohbado, the word, became flesh in a breaking of wind, a subway train roaring through a tunnel up to the platform. In the blap of hot wind, Peter Stumps received his calling to become Lohbado. LOH BAH DOH... He drooled through his beard as the train came to a stop. The doors opened. Lohbado boarded as Lohbado, the one who drools through his beard. Once he became Lohbado, he knew it would be possible to write his memoir.

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