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


Wednesday, February 08, 2006
I remember coming home and using the backdoor from the courtyard that you entered on 89th street. You went down a ramp and past a triangular green area with a birdbath in the middle and nothing. Nevertheless we weren't allowed on it. The birds didn't seem particularly interested either. I remember riding my bike around the triangle once or twice which brought me to the angle of the triangle that I would otherwise never go to, the part not between the entry to the courtyard and the door. That was slightly spooky; an area in the courtyard like all the others, and yet not part of the flow of my life. The windows and walls seemed blanker there somehow. The perspective was not the usual one. It was like taking an unaccustommed exit from the Henry Hudson Parkway.

On the way home from school we'd go through the yellow back door into the lobby. Then one day they decided to lock the backdoor -- just when they also decided that visitors had to be announced. (You used to just walk into buildings, if they had doormen, your own or others, and go upstairs.) We could still exit through the back door though, and ring when we got home and the doorman would come and open it. But I remember frustration when they didn't come; we'd ring and ring and wait and wait. Still, it was nice when they came; it was a ritual of arrival. Then eventually I think the doormen complained about the chore, and we had to go around to 90th street and through the front door. Tremendous and towering 89th street, somehow pegged to the morning sun as I walked east to school and the afternoon sun as I walked west and home, was replaced by 90th, which must have been angled slightly differently. Or maybe now I was taller, and those days were over.


posted by william 9:09 PM
. . .
0 comments
Comments:

Post a Comment





. . .