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, January 24, 2011
I remember being fascinated by physical constants -- that you could attach a number to an object or process, and that the number was essentially unchanging in space and time. Where in the universe did these numbers come from? Even more wonderful were constants that were limits, like the speed of light or absolute zero. It was strange enough that things like light and temperature were bounded, but that we could also put a number on those bounds seemed crazy.

posted by sravana 7:00 PM
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0 comments


Sunday, January 23, 2011
I remember my father trying to scare me out of the hiccups with sudden fake-punches. Probably the only time he didn't scare me.

posted by William 1:25 PM
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1 comments


I remember always finding my pajamas under my pillow (then later folding them and putting them there myself). It was so comforting to find them there, waiting.

posted by William 12:51 PM
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0 comments


Tuesday, January 18, 2011
I remember the phone system at Columbia. I remember knowing how to do amazing feats of voicemail acrobatics from anywhere on campus. I remember recording myself singing The Obvious Child and sending it to my friends' mailboxes during finals sophomore year. "And in remembering a road sign / I am remembering a girl when I was young / And we said, these songs are true, these days are ours, these tears are free / The cross is in the ball park—the cross is in the ball park." I must have re-recorded it six times, and now that I think think about it, I wonder if I chickened out or finally sent one. I hope I did.

posted by Rosasharn 11:39 PM
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Monday, January 17, 2011
I remember that my father would never read the sentiments inside a sentimental birthday card (your standard Hallmark card with its short italic poem). He went straight to whatever was written in ink. This was an interesting lesson to me about what counted (the real, the personal) and what didn't.

posted by William 9:04 AM
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Sunday, January 09, 2011
I remember hating school. I remember the loathsome boringness of it, the long hours of tedious repetition. Aching hand writing the same Hebrew letters over and over again. Exercise after language arts exercise in the Red Book, the Blue Book, the Green book. The same mouth-twisting prayers every morning. One math problem after the next, ad infinitum.

posted by Rosasharn 8:12 PM
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0 comments


Friday, January 07, 2011
I remember that adults wrote with pens. When they made mistakes, they crossed them out, instead of erasing them. I remember that this seemed a mystery to me, like script. I couldn't read script and I couldn't even imagine what it would be like to read something that had illegible crossed out parts in it. It somehow didn't occur to me that you just skipped them. So the technique of crossing out seemed an amazing adult attainment (like script). I could barely imagine how interesting what was said in this esoteric writing must be.

posted by William 12:52 AM
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Monday, January 03, 2011
I remember going to visit Floyd and Lynn and Jesse and Sarah every February vacation. Another way to say this: I remember going to the Smithsonian Museums. I remember the Air & Space Museum. Because it was the place my brother felt most at home and happy, we went there often. But I also remember the zoo and the natural history museum and and the botanical gardens (though they are not Smithsonian) and hours on the Mall and art, art, art. I remember when Jesse and Yossi and I were old enough to be able to visit galleries on our own: We synchronized our watches with my parents, agreed on a meeting place, and set a time to return to it. I remember going to what must have been the Hirshhorn: We walked around and talked about the works by ourselves. I don't remember anything we saw that day except a large, grey Henry Moore that I liked, but I remember the satisfaction of recognizing the artwork, the conviction that the works were my particular friends, just as Jesse was, even if we saw each other only once a year. Walking those galleries released me from being poor, being uncool, being 13, being awkward, and deep, and ugly. Artwork does not love you less for any of these reasons, and neither did Jesse.

posted by Rosasharn 4:04 PM
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