My First Ritual
Eroldi Idlore
Moments of the Now drift in and out of Time like a dream recalls itself for whatever reason; some call it Deja Vu. This is the point of our memories, is it not?
When I tell you about an important memory, that keeps it alive. If I write it down, that keeps it alive even more. Is this then the point of writing?
I have memories of what it felt like to learn the process of writing. It’s ones of alphabet refrigerator magnets in the kitchen; my mom takes credit for teaching me the letters.
I remember struggling along with my classmates to know our d’s from b’s, and which way does the c go… Then there were those who practically abused their papers with the erasers; I thought they’d never learn.
In third grade, I had such a knack for cursive. I loved translating each letter into a version of itself that could then connect to other letters. I stamped other kids’ letter sheets along with a few others who finished repeatedly writing the same letter over and over again quickly.
There was a point around this time in which I wanted to talk to God. Or, it was that I wanted to talk to myself. Or, maybe it was my soul that I was searching for.
I was young enough to have only just grasped the importance of connecting the letters into words. I felt that, in my contemplation of God, I should contemplate the relationship between accurately drawn characters and the deity of the Word.
At this point, I was also mainly inundated with God being this pictorial Lord of the Wind, Man in the Sky, Dude with Puffed Out Cheeks and Grey Clouds for Hair archetypal figure. His mythology reminded me so much of Santa Claus though. Not even in the look, just in the patriarchal way unto which you ask for things.
I didn’t think it worked like that. I didn’t think that you would simply ask for things through religiously praying to a man in the sky. And why is Santa an old man with a white beard who flies around on a sleigh full of these presents that you had asked for? These stories were too similar. And they didn’t make very much sense.
So I felt the need to approach it. One evening, I sat on the floor of my bedroom and faced my window, an insertion of something magical, a pane of glass, trans-morphed into my connection to all of the spiritual connotations of the outside world: the sky, the moon, the night, and darkness.
My hands held my small flip book journal and my pencil from school while I looked outside the window and thought about God. I knew I believed in something outside of the mythologies.
What could I write in my notebook? Obviously it was only things that I could draw the letters to AND knew how to spell. Since every word needs to be sounded out anyways, some words you could get away with bullshitting, but I tried not to mispell words, if I could help it. I instead tried to use words I knew. So I wrote about my name and some basic things about school and where I lived.
Despite the simplicity, I felt two things: one, is that there weren’t all that many letters yet a lot could be said if you learned all the words; and two, is that these letters reminded me so much of God.
Here we are, returned to the Word. Amidst all this static and friction, we attest to the written language. May its sustenance endure.
When I tell you about an important memory, that keeps it alive. If I write it down, that keeps it alive even more. Is this then the point of writing?
I have memories of what it felt like to learn the process of writing. It’s ones of alphabet refrigerator magnets in the kitchen; my mom takes credit for teaching me the letters.
I remember struggling along with my classmates to know our d’s from b’s, and which way does the c go… Then there were those who practically abused their papers with the erasers; I thought they’d never learn.
In third grade, I had such a knack for cursive. I loved translating each letter into a version of itself that could then connect to other letters. I stamped other kids’ letter sheets along with a few others who finished repeatedly writing the same letter over and over again quickly.
There was a point around this time in which I wanted to talk to God. Or, it was that I wanted to talk to myself. Or, maybe it was my soul that I was searching for.
I was young enough to have only just grasped the importance of connecting the letters into words. I felt that, in my contemplation of God, I should contemplate the relationship between accurately drawn characters and the deity of the Word.
At this point, I was also mainly inundated with God being this pictorial Lord of the Wind, Man in the Sky, Dude with Puffed Out Cheeks and Grey Clouds for Hair archetypal figure. His mythology reminded me so much of Santa Claus though. Not even in the look, just in the patriarchal way unto which you ask for things.
I didn’t think it worked like that. I didn’t think that you would simply ask for things through religiously praying to a man in the sky. And why is Santa an old man with a white beard who flies around on a sleigh full of these presents that you had asked for? These stories were too similar. And they didn’t make very much sense.
So I felt the need to approach it. One evening, I sat on the floor of my bedroom and faced my window, an insertion of something magical, a pane of glass, trans-morphed into my connection to all of the spiritual connotations of the outside world: the sky, the moon, the night, and darkness.
My hands held my small flip book journal and my pencil from school while I looked outside the window and thought about God. I knew I believed in something outside of the mythologies.
What could I write in my notebook? Obviously it was only things that I could draw the letters to AND knew how to spell. Since every word needs to be sounded out anyways, some words you could get away with bullshitting, but I tried not to mispell words, if I could help it. I instead tried to use words I knew. So I wrote about my name and some basic things about school and where I lived.
Despite the simplicity, I felt two things: one, is that there weren’t all that many letters yet a lot could be said if you learned all the words; and two, is that these letters reminded me so much of God.
Here we are, returned to the Word. Amidst all this static and friction, we attest to the written language. May its sustenance endure.
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Eroldi Idlore writes poetry and prose that explores the written process within self-reflective environments. Their themes emulate curiosity, story-telling and conscious questioning of the world that is shared specifically through written language. They personally adhere towards themes which penetrate the fourth wall of our very existence as writers and readers.
@makelikeitall |
