I remember / je me souviens
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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


Saturday, April 03, 2004
I remember that when either of my parents was away for the night (usually my father, who'd go to Chicago, that fabulous place, once a month) I would sleep in their twin bed. (As I've mentioned, they had separate beds, connected with a hook and eye latch that my father would unhook to separate the beds in order to make them.) I remember that feeling of security you had when everyone was home and the chores and activities of the evening were over, and only lamps were on anymore -- no overhead lights, no TV's, no dishwashers, etc. And how my father's or mother's absence provided an interesting variation on this security: the perfectly made bed that I was about to sleep in, lit with lamplight, perfectly smooth, unmussed by my playing and frolicing during the day, was a perfect version of how everything was in its place. Being able to sleep in the empty, cool, clean, fresh bed was one of the pleasures of their being away, and made it fine.

I also remember some time that my mother was away for a few days or went on several trips in a row when my father told me after a day or two to go back to my own bed. I was shocked by this, and hurt, but he insisted (irritated by my unhappiness). It's clear to me now that my father, amateur Freudian (he had a girlfriend whose father was a psychoanalyst when he was a teenager; the father impressed him a great deal) was disturbed by the oedipal configurations he foresaw developing. For me, this might be my first memory of a realization that home wasn't quite home forever.


posted by william 6:19 AM
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