Photos of half-remembered dreams

I remember years ago as a little boy, I played in the woods near my home in Pacific Grove. The trees and plants were covered with morning dew. Dewdrops hung on spider webs spread across branches. I pretended I was a pioneer stocking wild animals. The only creatures I encountered were squirrels and black widow spiders. But one tree fascinated me. Vines cascaded downward to the earth. The tree of life, I called it. I was only a nine-year-old boy and didn’t know any better. As a solitary little boy with few friends, my imagination was my best friend.

The breezes in the early mornings in Yokohama carry with them promises of a better life. A friend of mine living one story below me in our six-story apartment complex is confined to a wheelchair. She looks out her window and sees the sunrise on another day of overcoming desperation. “Oh, God! Will I ever walk again? No!” As the sun rises higher into the sky, she gains in stature. “No, I may not be able to walk, but I can soar above the clouds.” Her mind rumbles with creative activity. Activity she captures with brushes on a canvass.

I remember the last time I spoke with my step-brother. His mind was fading at the time, and I sensed he was slipping into a state of dementia. He could not remember what he had done, or how to drive a car. I wanted nothing to do with him.  I had problems of my own. Now he lives in a 24/7 residence. I’m relieved but my conscience is troubled.

As a little boy, Christmas filled me with joy, particularly when I awoke and saw all the wonderful presents under the Christmas tree. The tree dried up and we tossed it outside for the garbage company to collect it. Not a grand ending for the Christmas season.

During the Season of Obon, the spirits of the dead return to the living for visits. Unfortunately, for some people, the spirits resurrect unpleasant memories.

I wonder who lived in this house. Was it a young couple with children? A young couple that had grown older and passed on to another life? An artist whose works gained prominence among a small circle of admirers? Or an old man who lived alone with his memories?

The breeze from the bay clears away a lot of the rubble in the mind. I return home refreshed, but not entirely relieved. I need a hot shower followed by a glass of wine before sitting down to write again.

Dementia gradually erases the color and texture of loved ones from memory. At first,  faces remain vague, barely recognizable, before becoming sucked into the morass of forgetfulness.

As a six-year-old boy, I went fishing with my friend Albert on the pier in Pacific Grove, California. We tied hooks on strings and used bread for bait. We could never understand why the fish were not nibbling. Disappointed, we gave up and went swimming instead.

I had a romantic notion about the sea. My romanticism was fed by books and films. Treasure Island, Moby Dick, Two Years Before the Mast. And of course, a steady diet of vintage films about action at sea during World War II. I joined the navy and what did I experience? On my first duty aboard ship, I spent the early part of the cruise hanging over the side upchucking morning chow.