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


Monday, September 25, 2006
I remember driving to school with Jane, one of my kindergarden teachers. She would leave her little boy (Adam?) with my parents, who took him to his school, and she would pick me up and take me to school with her. I think my mother got him in the afternoon and she would pick him up when she dropped me at home. I remember her Birkenstocks, her feet in those sandals. I thought the shoes so ugly, could not understand why she wore them, but this was not a question to ask. I remember her feet on the pedals. I sat in the front seat and watched every part of her driving. I hypothesized that she put the indicator on, but that somehow the car turned it off automatically. I didn't know how the car could know we had turned, but I never once saw her turn the signal off, so that must have been it. I was pretty sure which pedal made us go and which made us stop, but I could never be positive, for I couldn't understand the third pedal, and not knowing about the clutch threw me off. I looked out the window so much, learned my way to school more or less, so that even now when I drive in Allston, I feel a residual pride at recognizing the houses, the corners, the way.

Mostly we listened to the radio or were quiet, but sometimes we sang on the way to school. Jane was a terrific storyteller, a dramatic storyteller, and my favorite part of my kindergarden day had been when they darkened the room and we sat on the big rug, and Jane alone took the stage and told and acted out the Goosegirl or whatever fairytale she might. But I don't remember Jane telling stories while we drove. I remember her teaching me a hard but pleasing song that I can't now remember. I remember singing "Miss Mary Mack" and liking the silver buttons just fine, but worrying about the black dress and the mother's displeasure when Mary broke that comb. I enjoyed singing with Jane, and, though I was never convinced that it was a pretty song, I was happy to sing it--better than not singing. One day she asked me which was my favorite song, and I wasn't sure, but I sang "Esa Aynai." And I remember one morning Jane came to pick me up dressed in very fancy clothing--a shiny, formal black or black-burgundy dress like women wore in movies. She looked terribly wrong for a school day. I could see she was troubled, possibly she had been wearing those clothes all night, and crying, and my mother soothed her before we left for school.


posted by Rosasharn 12:31 PM
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