I remember / je me souviens
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

For those limbic bursts of nostalgia, invented by Proust, miniaturized by Nicholson Baker, and freeze-dried by Joe Brainard in his I remember and by Georges Perec in his Je me souviens.

But there are no fractions, the world is an integer
Like us, and like us it can neither stand wholly apart nor disappear.
When one is young it seems like a very strange and safe place,
But now that I have changed it feels merely odd, cold
And full of interest.
          --John Ashbery, "A Wave"

Sometimes I sense that to put real confidence in my memory I have to get to the end of all rememberings. That seems to say that I forego remembering. And now that strikes me as an accurate description of what it is to have confidence in one's memory.
          --Stanley Cavell, The Claim of Reason


Tuesday, June 18, 2002
I remember that my father would always order slices of Sicilian when we went to Phil's (of the conical cups and formica counters) to get pizza. That seemed like another attribute of paternality, like shaving, and rinsing his face with icy water, and the stinging Old Spice he put on afterwards, and the cuff-clips when he went bike-riding -- some aspect of competence appropriate to him and to him only, some relation to things in the world that were oriented towards him and not towards any of us. Occasionally my grandfathers would do some fatherly things, like shaving or allowing us to have pizza. But they never went so far as ordering slices of Sicilian or using Old Spice. After all, they weren't fathers.

I remember the calm dusty daylight on the carpet in the dining room (where sometimes my mother's mother would knead me like bread while I squealed with both puzzlement and delight -- I didn't know what "kneading" was, and I didn't know why poking me with her fingers was a way of "needing" me; it's not that it seemed funny that she needed to poke me -- it seemed funny that there was this adult way of needing that had nothing to do with requiring, with necessity, with her desires or demands, but was rather some sort of laying on of hands which was somehow necessary to me, as though needwere an actually transitive verb -- like knead -- as though she were making me necessary, but to whom? to my life, or as though she were making living necessary to me, finally making it necessary to me to undergo being kneaded by her, with mingled puzzlement and delight) -- I remember the daylight when I was alone in the apartment, so weekdays when for some reason I was home from school for some reason and the dining room light was off but the room was flooded with daylight. Under the table it was darker, but still perfused with light, and things felt very calm.

I remember when we moved we got some Persian carpet and I was obsessed with the patterns in it, trying to resolve them into faces and into clear repetitions, without ever succeeding. I was also curious about why the carpets had fringes.


posted by william 6:30 AM
. . .
0 comments
Comments:

Post a Comment





. . .