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


Tuesday, May 31, 2011
I remember understanding the chirp of cicadas as a mechanical sound.


posted by Rosasharn 11:32 PM
. . .
0 comments


Thursday, May 19, 2011
I remember that after my nap on long summer Shabbat afternoons, my father would give me a cold roast-beef sandwich for my supper. And I remember sleeping on the back porch on Locke Street, on that grimy green vinyl-covered settee. Waking sweaty and stuck to the surface of those cushions was good.


posted by Rosasharn 10:24 PM
. . .
0 comments


Wednesday, May 11, 2011
I remember my grandparents teaching us to play cards. We played Black-Jack (21), Poker (five- and seven-card stud, mostly), and we played Bridge. I remember my grandfather trying to teach me to think about my hand: Not just how to hold my cards or count my points, but how to think about what contract I ought to be in, and what was out against me. "Count your losers," he would say, "count your losers"—but I would get so caught up in what I imagined doing with the cards I had been dealt, my enthusiasm would cloud my sight.


posted by Rosasharn 10:05 PM
. . .
0 comments


Friday, May 06, 2011
I remember my mother forcing hyacinths: bulbs set in colorful jars for weeks and weeks on the steps under the bulkhead, where it was cold and dark. I remember the sweetly wafting, dreamy scent of wisteria at night in the streets of Baka.


posted by Rosasharn 12:17 PM
. . .
0 comments


I remember smells, but how can I say more than that? When presented with them, I remember the smell of leaves decaying and the smell of lilac and gardenia, of rubber erasers, of bike-chain oil, of copy machines and hot paper, of wet dog, of roses and of soil, the smell of a gerbill's cage, of clean wood shavings, of acquarium water, chlorine, pepper, lemon verbena (and other herbs/spices but the point is not to say how many), of diapers (infant and toddler) and of chicks that need their newspaper changed. I remember a lot of other outside smells I don't know the names of but that I walk into like a wall of past. I notice that this year, as every year, the viburnum spreads its scent over the whole garden, so that I have come to associate that flavor with the smelless muscarii, even though they contribute nothing to it--they just show up around the same time.


posted by Rosasharn 11:22 AM
. . .
0 comments


Sunday, May 01, 2011
I remember lying in the back seat of the car and looking up at trees' waving canopies and the sky. I remember the glory of a night city from afar, perfect tiny lights defining streets and buildings. I remember the urgent race of the evening highway: red lights vs. white. I never could tell who was winning.


posted by Rosasharn 8:25 PM
. . .
0 comments




. . .