Good God. This BBC article: “‘Memories” pass between generations‘ ” that I read today told me that the reason I have the ESPN, or at least the reason I remember things that happened, most likely, to my great-grandparents, is because the chemical reactions in the blood of our ancestors creates real changes in our DNA, and those get passed along, again, and again. James Gallagher for the BBC writes, “The findings provide evidence of “transgenerational epigenetic inheritance” – that the environment can affect an individual’s genetics, which can in turn be passed on.” Whaaaaa????
n dreams, mostly, I imagine and from repetitive ancestors, but also from things. Stuff. From the stories that the stuff makes.
Also, while waiting for the Ds to get to sleep, I watched Antiques Roadshow again, which always gets me in a particularly ghosty mood. I’m going to poem that and then wait for Hp to arrive here, at the Creek of the Everlasting F’Yeah. Last Ghost poem of the year. Probably.
Heirlooms are just whole stories, stuck in our things that become inheritance. Good reason to pierce your soul and put your stuffing into your stuff. Give them a meal of leftovers in memory. Quite a dustup when the Siberian amethysts went to the wrong daughter. That is not a story of our family, but it is of someone’s. Those are the best of all purple gems passed along in the bones. Sometimes the story comes back in pieces to the grandchild, and sometimes it gets all attached up in the bracelet. Sometimes it is the the ugliest lamp in the room. Might could be it is the ugliest bright and a hideous light, could be the worst ceramics in the world with the best story. Here’s a thing of memory to the daughter. Here is a thing with a story to the son. Here is a dress or a dish or a lampshade to the granddaughter, along with the eventual jewel. Here are the weapons and tools to the grandson, too, unless there are none. Those lucky granddaughters. The night might be bright and cold and deaf, like the cold that freezes it all up, but there are stories in the wearing or moving of these things, things that are passed with words and weight.
The weather is causing the internet to be wacky. Again. I’m going to post this before it goes away, because it is the most poemy thing that has gone all day. Monday. Hugs, you poemies.