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


Wednesday, September 07, 2005
I remember the blind man who lived in our neighborhood. He tapped with his cane on the curb --his way of "asking" someone to help him over the street. When I was young I always avoided him, my bad conscience painfully visible, I believed, even to the blind man two corners away. But finally I matured enough to approach him and ask if he wanted help crossing the street. He was very charming and said I had a beautiful voice and asked if I was a singer. His friendliness made me glad and the next time I saw him I did not hesitate to help him. "Oh , you are the singer!" he said in recognition.
Here in Sweden the traffic light-posts have a clicking sound which tells blind people when the light is red or green. I always think of him when I hear the light turn green-- he wouldn't have needed me here in Sweden.
I also remember the old lady outside the nursing home in a wheelchair with a plaid blanket on her knee and silver hair in a bun. A classic old lady. She was always so glad when I came from school and said hello. I'm not sure that she spoke English, but I think she called my schnooksy: She smiled and pinched my cheeks - I always assumed she was a relative.
I remember not seeing her for a long time and wondering where she was. It took me until I was an adult to realize that she must have died.
I included this memory of her in a lecture I held about mentors, and the blind man was in a poem I once wrote. Now they are both remembered in the same blog.


posted by caroline 3:59 AM
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