The storehouse of my mind is bursting and begs to be released. The
most fluid, direct, and succinct way to accomplish this is by
writing. Writing from memory is typically in the form of memoir. For
a good memoir, there needs to be vivid recall, and studies have shown
that our memories are more profound when they are accompanied by
emotion. In other words, a boring life does not make for a good
memoir. My life has been far from boring—especially the year that I
gave up home, car, typical security, and traveled solo around the
globe . . . feet firmly on the ground. I have begun writing chapters
from that year; and chosen to write in the third person.
Here is a sample, taken from a chapter on Belize:
They ambled casually together, past the
run-down shops, enjoying one another enough that each day when they
happened to meet, they grew friendlier. The black man, Hugh, had
buttery cocoa skin and wore his hair in dreadlocks. He wore old jeans,
a tank top, and flip-flops on his feet. Outside a cafe one afternoon,
the traveler asked Hugh if he would have his picture taken. Hugh
posed bashfully, eyes twinkling and lips tightly shut. The traveler had to put down his camera and smile himself
before Hugh at last grinned. Then the best picture was taken, with
Hugh smiling broadly and showing a gaping hole in his top row of
teeth—so that his tongue pushed through the gap.
One afternoon, Hugh took the traveler
to his house. They walked out of town, about a half mile along the
beach, past some respectable private homes until they reached a
curve, and then, looking past a little fresh water stream emptying into the
sea, Hugh pointed toward an area where it appeared a jungle had
marched to the shoreline. "My place is back there," he said. They walked on and soon could spot a
ramshackle hut. “My girlfriend Susie is home . . . we been
together awhile . . . she is good!” He said, winking at me with his
toothless smile. As we neared the hut, I noticed how primitive it
was. “I built it myself” he said, “out of stuff I found.” The
traveler peered into the windows lacking glass or even screens and
imagined what might happen during a storm. “What about when it
rains?” he asked. Hugh grinned and replied right away, “My
girlfriend and I fight over the dry spots.”
We came to the front steps and Suzie
stepped outside, smiling broadly.
She was plump and homely and
had dreadlocks like Hugh. They went
inside. There was nothing there but a few kitchen utensils and
dilapidated sticks of furniture. They went out back and Hugh showed
his primitive operation for collecting juice from harvested Nomi
fruit, which he marketed. The traveler suggested photographing Suzie.
She perked up to the idea, put down her glass of rum and changed into a hand knit dress in
Rastafarian colors, barely covering her torso and ended just above
her knees.
For some reason, Hugh decided to leave.
He gave a knowing smile, and said he needed to go to the store and
get something. Inside with Suzie, she flopped down on a chair, leaned
backward with her eyes half open and spread her legs. The episode
seemed odd, and he got her to stand up and pose on the front porch
for photos. In a reverie, she acted sexy and posed like a model. The
air was perfect and the sky clear.
Hugh did not come back before the
Traveler left. That afternoon, he burned a cd with the pictures of
Suzie. The next day he went back to Hugh’s but the place was empty.
Looking around at the shack one last time, he placed the cd on the
kitchen table and left.
