There was an old Cuban who worked as school crossing guard at my daughter's high school. When kids were dropped off or picked up he'd repeat these words that a non-Latino boy in our carpool reproduced with a perfect accent. Vamo'-'amo'-'amo'. It was let's go, vamos. As in a loop.
I hear him everywhere. Urging me, everyone, on. Let's go. Move on. Don't linger. Don't loiter. Get on with it. Don't reminisce. Above all, don't regret. Je ne regrette rien. Pretty song. Live in the moment. Nice thought. One day at a time. Good advice.
But how about these? We blew it (Kesey via Wolfe). The past is not dead. It's not even past (Faulkner). But will you love me tomorrow? (King).
And I won't repeat myself and quote Duras/Resnais/Desnoes. Je voudrais avoir une memoire inconsolable. Oh, I just did. It's not even past.
Without that sense of time past or future there'd be neither temps perdu nor Star Trek. Just the moment. Zen, no? But then, who would tell us of the wrath of Achilles? Why would Ulysses and Hamlet haunt the wanderings of Dubliners channeled by an expat in Trieste who still haunts us today? Why cross the Rubicon? Why begin the beguine if there's no hope of a fine romance? Why hang in a museum? Why hang out there? Why sing the blues? Why hope something's coming/I don't know what it is/but it is going to be . . . Tonight. Yesterday I believe in yesterday. The cat will meow/and dog will have his day.
I want to have my memories, inconsolable or not. I want to eat my cake and have it too, not the other way around as most folk say because that doesnt make any sense in time or space. I don't want to be so in the moment that now people just get uglier/and I have no sense of time. I don't want to hear that old Cuban tell me vamo'-'amo'-'amo. Vete tu, chico. No jodas mas. I'll move when I feel like it. Or next time a comparsa passes by. I feel a big drum, mamita, it's calling me.