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 11, 2006
I remember that the days after September 11 there were no planes in the skies except the odd formation of fighters, and how subtly different that was, as though the gods had left and the skies were now empty of the human presence they sponsored, or that sponsored them. But I remember that everyone drove very slowly and courteously, which altered but neither intensified nor depleted the human presence on the ground.

For a week or so there was no road rage. I remember that everyone knew what everyone else was thinking as they drove, that day and in the days that followed. And that it was as if we were all trying to slow down, to temper and moderate the speed of the planes after the fact, by a kind of body English, decelerate the rate of deceleration.

I remember being haunted for months, replaying the attacks, by not knowing where to place myself mentally: in the interior of the plane? In the buildings? Those two interiors, two spaces, which were (like all spaces) so external to each other: from which one could I cope with what had happened as I tried to imagine the experience? The World Trade Center, as seen from the planes, was a sheet of glass. Its exterior had no connection with the lobbies and offices that I'd once seen. Or the planes, as seen from the twin towers were streamlined metal. Not a place of seats and tray-tables and and lavatories. How could those spaces collapse into each other, or rather annihilate each other? What point of view could I imagine it from, since any point of view was absolutely external to the others?

At least knowing what people in the other cars were thinking made it possible to remember another relation between spaces: each of us knowing what was going on in the sacred precinct of another person's little sheltered place -- even the interior of a car -- and (for a very brief period) respecting it wholly.


posted by william 7:08 AM
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