“Revision is memory’s antidote,” I heard the wise greyhair say. Antidote. It fascinates me, that. I think of an antidote as being an agent of healing, of cure. But it’s not. Antidote is the very first line of defense, the liquid that renders the venom harmless. Antidote does not cure. Poisoning has already occurred—is occurring—and antidote simply suspends the hovering death. Life continues, but if there is damage to fragile tissues, they will have to be healed through other means, other therapies.
Memories, venomous. There are so many, and not just because we chose to take things, people, circumstances badly. For me, revision takes the form of trying to emphasize the good moments over the hard ones. To try and remember someone as better than they actually were. But he actually wished to see you confused and heart-sick. He actually played games with your mind. He chose to hold pain over your head and crack it like an egg, dripping down, slimy-stuck. Maybe it was the power. The viper struck, intentionally. What he gained was the upper hand, making a game of what should have been as easy as getting cereal before school.
Revision requires effort. Revision is an intentional process. In some ways, I have been revising all my life; taking the good and shucking the bad. Keeping what I can find that is useful, clever, beautiful.
But revision itself—is it delusion?
And if delusion—is that harmful?
“You meant it for evil, but God meant it for good,” Joseph told his perfidious brothers. God can step in and revise; he can choose that something that is meant end up saying another thing entirely. In Joseph’s case, it saved thousands of lives during a famine. And make no mistake, God is always interested in life. Not venom. Not death.
Revision suspends death, but is not the healing, the cure. I can tell myself a new story, and that is well and good. We live and breathe our narratives, and the narrative of death has to be arrested, stopped before it locks our lips and legs forever.
But the cure is more than just narrative, and it is the real work, the every day. It is the walking out in each minute the narrative that will end up bringing life, sustenance—both to yourself and to others. Narrative matters. But the doing is the life.
So delusion or not—I will participate in antidote, in keeping the death at bay, suspending it. I will be saved from the venom in order to gain space, room, breath to let God mean things for good.
Save me from the venom, bring to me the chance for good, for life. Bring me revision, memory’s antidote.
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