Mnemosyne: A Love Affair with Memory

By Larry L. Franklin

Memory is our most treasured asset. Seldom has such a complex subject been presented in a compelling narrative, where the intellect, the curious, and the recipient of horrific memories can grasp its meaning. Mnemosyne: A Love Affair with Memory is such a story.

The two main characters, Larry L. Franklin and Richard Semon, lived in different centuries on opposite sides of the world, with memory as the common obsession that ties the two stories together. Franklin was diagnosed with posttraumatic stress disorder brought on by physical and sexual childhood abuse. He had lived for decades without knowing the cause of his misery. If not for his mothers revelations, he might never have seen the memories that nearly cost him his sanity. Long-term therapy, self-exploration, and an able psychotherapist brought him back from the dark side.

Richard Semon was a world-renowned nineteenth-century evolutionary biologist. His reputation crumbled when he fell in love with a fellow professors wife, who chose to leave her husband and children for a life with Richard. The university fired Richard, his peers turned away, and the one-time-professor turned private-thinker/philosopher dedicated the remainder of his life to the study of memory. Peer rejection and the later death of his wife drove Richard into a deep depression followed by suicide.

This is a work of creative nonfiction written in the form of a hybrid memoir. The complexities of memory, together with the mysteries of a spiritual journey, yearned for an approach different from the strictly fact-based, nonmetaphorical strategies most common in nonfiction. Long before the written word, the ancient Greeks conveyed the complications of mortal life and left veiled advice for future generations through stories, myths, and legends. They brought human qualities and quests to life through the exploits of an assortment of gods, goddesses, and other mythological creatures. Even now, artists sometimes use Greek mythology to explain the seemingly unexplainable. I chose Mnemosyne, the goddess of memory, as a conduit for the deeper, more abstract aspects of my own and Richard Semons navigation of the spiritual world. Personifying memory as the Greeks did seemed appropriate to my quest, as it was to Richard Semons.

Writers of memoir depend on their relationship to memory, are smitten with it, are obsessed by it, and chase it down the halls of recollection, always in pursuit of an entity that disappears around every next corner, much like an elusive lover who bids the beloved to come hither, but who then flees, disappearing and reappearing in a seemingly endless chase. When memory finally turns to face the one chasing her, the embrace can be both wonderful and terrible. This was so for Richard Semon, and it was so for me. Memory reaches back in time and challenges the accuracy of what one recalls in that embrace. I wrote what I remember; nothing more, nothing less.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jul 15, 2013
• ISBN: 9781483665511

Larry L. Franklin

Larry L. Franklin holds bachelor’s and master’s degrees in music and performed in the U.S. Navy Band, located in Washington, D.C., from 1967 to 1971. From 1972 through 1975, Franklin taught music at Southern Illinois University. In 1976, he completed requirements for a certified financial planner designation and maintained a successful investment business until 2007, when he retired to devote his energies to writing. In 2003, Larry received an MFA in creative nonfiction from Goucher College in Baltimore, Maryland. Reviewers describe his work as “compassionate and compelling.”

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Copyright © 2013 by Larry L. Franklin.

Library of Congress Control Number:   2013912582

ISBN:      Hardcover      978-1-4836-6550-4

                Softcover      978-1-4836-6549-8

                Ebook           978-1-4836-6551-1

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

Rev. date: 07/11/2013

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CONTENTS

Author’s Note

Introduction

1.   Clouds are patchy at the end of a raging storm.

2.   She rolled a grenade on the floor.

3.   Life is like an onion.

4.   A place where poets dare to tread.

5.   So much promise.

6.   A Discarded Lover

7.   Boy with a Switch

8.   My dog had lost his bark.

9.   Academic turned Private Thinker

10.   Gnat in the Forest

11.   Oh, To Be a Butterfly

12.   A Bird without Wings

13.   Yesterday I heard the rain whisper your name.

14.   Today the mind is cloudy.

15.   And then it began to rain.

16.   When the rhythm is gone.

17.   In the backseat of my 1955 Ford Fairlane 500.

18.   The boy with the bent neck and a dog whose tail wouldn’t wag.

19.   Dig a pond, and let it fill.

Epilogue

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I GRATEFULLY ACKNOWLEDGE Xlibris P ublishing Company for publishing my work. I thank the staff at Xlibris for their assistance.

I particularly thank my editor and mentor, Diana Hume George, for her support and guidance through the completion of my manuscript. My appreciation goes to George and Diane Nadaf, Charles Meliska, Felicity Scattergood-Miller, and Janet Coffman for reading and providing input on my work. To Janet Coffman, I especially thank you for teaching me the intricacies and power of psychotherapy.

My love and affection go to my wife, Paula, for her support and understanding when I was occupied by my story. The work demanded such an emotional cost that I was left empty, waiting for my soul to recharge.

Special thanks goes to Nisha Margrum for creating the art work for my book cover. Nisha, a young artist from Southern Illinois, displayed a creative maturity and insight while giving birth to such a powerful image. And to the countless number of people who have encouraged me to write my story. Their openness and honesty have helped me complete my journey.

AUTHOR’S NOTE

T HIS IS A work of creative nonfiction written in the form of a hybrid memoir. The two main characters lived in different centuries on opposite sides of the world, with memory as the common obsession that ties the two stories together.

The complexities of memory, together with the mysteries of a spiritual journey, yearned for an approach different from the strictly fact-based, nonmetaphorical strategies most common in nonfiction. Long before the written word, the ancient Greeks conveyed the complications of mortal life, and left veiled advice for future generations through stories, myths, and legends. They brought human qualities and quests to life through the exploits of an assortment of gods, goddesses, and other mythological creatures. Even now, artists sometimes use Greek mythology to explain the seemingly unexplainable. I chose Mnemosyne, the goddess of memory, as a conduit for the deeper, more abstract aspects of my own and Richard Semon’s navigation of the spiritual world. Personifying memory as the Greeks did seemed appropriate to my quest, as it was to Richard Semon’s.

Writers of memoir depend on their relationship to memory, are smitten with it, are obsessed by it, and chase it down the halls of recollection, always in pursuit of an entity that disappears around every next corner, much like an elusive lover who bids the beloved to come hither, but who then flees, disappearing and reappearing in a seemingly endless chase. When memory finally turns to face the one chasing her, the embrace can be both wonderful and terrible. This was so for Richard Semon, and it was so for me. Memory reaches back in time and challenges the accuracy of what one recalls in that embrace. I wrote what I remember; nothing more, nothing less.

INTRODUCTION

I T WAS AN earlier time, late nineteenth or early twentieth century, perhaps, when three learned men—Hermann Sorgel, Daniel Thorpe, and Major Barclay—gathered in an English pub. They had attended a day-long Shakespearean conference in London, listening to lectures on the works of William Shakespeare and experiencing a lively discussion on the structure and theme of their favorite sonnet. What better place to finish the day. A bar lined one wall, a smoke-stained fireplace stood against another, and several like-minded patrons circled small wooden tables separated just enough for an intimate conversation. The cigars were strong that night, and the dark, warm beer was smooth and plentiful.

The major abruptly changed the conversation when he pointed to a beggar standing outside. Islamic legend has it, he said, that King Solomon owned a ring that allowed him to understand the language of the birds. And a particular beggar, so the story goes, somehow came into possession of the ring. Of course the ring was beyond any imaginable value and, as a result, could not be sold. Legend has it that the beggar died in one of the courtyards of the mosque of Wazir Khan, in Lahore.

Sorgel jokingly added that the ring was surely lost, like all magical thingamajigs. Or maybe some chap has it, he said with a chuckle, and can’t make out what they’re saying because of all the racket.

Thorpe weighed in. It is not a parable. Or if it is, it is still a true story. There are certain things that have a price so high that they can never be sold. Thorpe went mute and stared at the floor. He seemed to regret having spoken at all.

The darkening of Thorpe’s mood and the lateness of the evening moved the major to call it a night. Thorpe and Sorgel soon followed suit and returned to their hotel. Thorpe then invited Sorgel to his room to continue their conversation. It was there, in the privacy of Thorpe’s room, that he asked Sorgel if he would like to own King Solomon’s ring. That’s a metaphor, of course, but the thing the metaphor stands for is every bit as wondrous as the ring. ‘Shakespeare’s Memory,’ from his youngest boyhood days to early April 1616—I offer it to you. Sorgel fell silent as he struggled to find a word.

Thorpe continued. I am not an impostor, I am not insane. I beg you to suspend judgment until you hear me out. I was a military physician. I was in a field hospital when a soldier who had been shot twice was about to die. What he told me might sound quite startling, but strange things are the norm in times of war. The soldier, Adam Clay, offered me ‘Shakespeare’s Memory,’ and then, in the final minutes of his life, he struggled to explain the singular condition of the gift. ‘The one who offers the gift must offer it aloud, and the one who is to receive it must accept it the same way. The man who gives it loses it forever,’ he said to me.

And you now possess ‘Shakespeare’s Memory’? Sorgel asked.

I am now in possession of two memories—Shakespeare’s and my own. They seem to merge, or maybe I should say that two memories possess me.

I’ve searched the works of Shakespeare for years, Sorgel thought. What better gift than to know the inner workings of Shakespeare’s mind, and maybe touch his soul. Yes, Sorgel declared with an assertive tone. "I accept ‘Shakespeare’s Memory.’"

Shakespeare’s Memory is a short story by Jorge Luis Borges. While the work is fiction, Borges’ insights into memory are both precise and profound, and as real as life itself. Borges leads us through a maze of discoveries as bits and pieces and chunks of memory begin to unfold.

Sorgel recalled Thorpe’s words. It will emerge in dreams, or when you awake, when you turn the pages of a book, or turn a corner. Don’t be impatient. Don’t invent recollections. As I gradually forget, you will remember.

Sorgel’s sleepless nights were mixed with the fear that it was a hoax, or possibly an illusion, and the longing hope that he might in some way become Shakespeare. Memories began to return as visual images and then auditory, sounds that issued from him when Sorgel sang a melody he had never heard before. In a few days, Sorgel’s speech took on the r’s and open vowels of the sixteenth century. He began to sound like Shakespeare.

Memory was not the stretch of rolling hills with green meadows and natural springs that Sorgel had hoped for. It was a mountain range with beautiful and, at the same time, terrifying peaks, frigid temperatures, and the threatening crevasse just around the corner. Some memories were shadowy, and some were so traumatic that they were hidden forever. Sorgel enjoyed the happiness of the moment, and then his mood darkened from an unwanted memory.

At first, Sorgel’s and Shakespeare’s memories were separate and easily distinguishable from each other. Then they began to mix, and finally Shakespeare’s Memory overpowered his own, causing Sorgel to question his sanity and wonder how little time was left before he was no longer the man he once knew.

It became clear that Sorgel had no choice but to give Shakespeare’s Memory away. He dialed telephone numbers at random. At first they were met with skepticism and then an abrupt hang-up. In time, he reached a more receptive gentleman, and Sorgel said, "Do you want ‘Shakespeare’s Memory’? And to Sorgel’s surprise, the voice answered, I will take that risk. I accept ‘Shakespeare’s Memory.’"

Shakespeare’s Memory was transferred a little at a time, and it was irregular at best. But years later, some residue still remained. I am now a man among men, Sorgel wrote. In my waking hours I am Professor Emeritus Hermann Sorgel. I putter about the card catalog and compose erudite trivialities, but at dawn I sometimes know that the person dreaming is that other man. Every so often in the evening I am unsettled by small, fleeting memories that are perhaps authentic.

* * *

We awake in the morning, take our shower, brush our teeth, shave without cutting our face, and dress ourselves, all without conscious thought. We remember the names of our children, our spouse, our dog. A friend or family member calls us on the phone to share an incident that happened over ten years ago. We arrive at the office, look at our schedule, and immediately know what must be done and where to go. Memory is miraculous.

It could be argued that memory is our most precious gift. Whether from God, or an evolutionary product developed through the generational pressures of natural selection, memory is our most treasured asset, our life, our history, our footprint in the snow. But it lacks perfection, and it can leave us lost. It can be the temporary loss of a name, a forgotten appointment, or possibly something more serious: amnesia, Alzheimer’s, dementia, brain injuries, repressed memories, tumors, disease. All these and more can leave us with a broken mind.

Throughout civilization, we have questioned our origins, our purpose, and what lies ahead when we are dead and gone. This lingering curiosity is the constant human denominator from one century to another. The ancient Greeks were no different. Long before the alphabet and written word, they shared life’s lessons through the storytelling of myths and legends, using an assortment of gods, goddesses, and other mythological creatures. Through mythology, the Greeks learned the laws of the universe, the cycle of life, and how to best live in their world. The journey shows humanity’s inherent need to explore the origins, meaning, and morality of their lives.

Modern scholars use Greek mythology to study the religions and political institutions of ancient Greek civilization. We know that the ancient Greeks did not believe in absolute truths as practiced by Christianity and Judaism, that gods and goddesses were sometimes believed to have shared intimate relationships with humans, that mythological creatures held both the power and the fragility of humans, and that gods and goddesses were immortal while humans were not.

Although gods and goddesses of ancient mythology are no longer worshipped by any formal religions of modern times, their legacy continues throughout the world. Many well-known masterpieces in painting, music, literature, and theater employ themes from mythology. The moral and intellectual themes of the stories told about ancient gods and goddesses have been proven easily adaptable to many cultures over many centuries. Not unlike literary metaphors, mythology can sometimes make the complexities, even paradoxes, easier to understand.

Mnemosyne, daughter of Uranus and Gaia, was the goddess of memory. Story has it that Mnemosyne slept with Zeus, the god of weather, for nine consecutive nights and later gave birth to the nine daughters called muses. Each daughter had a specialty of her own: history, astronomy, tragedy, comedy, dance, epic poetry, love poetry, dance to the gods, and lyric poetry. While important in their own right, their gifts would be meaningless without Mnemosyne. How could the gifts of history, poetry, dance, and the others flourish or even continue to exist without memory? Lacking memory, our species would not survive, the act of being could not be apprehended, for the human species must remember who it is or vanish in the darkness of confusion.

Mnemosyne held the secrets to memory. Its power, fragility, and complexities were hers to share; and only through her love could a human begin to understand. Paintings preserve her beauty for all to see. An auburn full mane draped down her back and partially covered her breasts. She had a round face, green eyes, flesh-filled lips, and skin the color of river pearls. She was portrayed as seductive and sophisticated—just what you would expect from a goddess. But her beauty, as striking as it was, was merely the prologue to her magic.

Whether or not you believe that love between a mythological immortal and a human is real is unimportant. Imagination drives the mind and moves the heart and makes the earth change course. That’s what love is all about. This is a story about two men’s love affair with Mnemosyne. It has the passion and trappings of an all-consuming, out-of-control love affair. Neither man was left untouched. One man fought off the seduction of death, pulled himself through the dark side, and emerged in a different state. He was left with a never-ending love for life’s greatest asset, the gift of memory. The other man shot himself in the heart. The three main characters of my story are myself, Larry L. Franklin (1942-), Richard Semon (1859-1918), and of course Mnemosyne (Memory).

"CLOUDS ARE PATCHY AT THE END

OF A RAGING STORM."

Larry L. Franklin (1942-)

I T WAS THE summer of 1998, two years into therapy, when memories were tested and reality was uncertain. Larry returned to the site where he had spent the first eight years of his life. The countryside was just as he remembered: beans thick and heavy from the morning dew, and cornstalks standing straight like soldiers in the rising sun. A beautiful day to search the archives of one’s mind.

Granted, the farmland in Central Illinois didn’t make the list of