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


Tuesday, September 25, 2012
I remember Yom Kippur at the Havurah, which was long and boring and hungry, though we brought sandwiches for my brother and me. When Young Israel was on Dunbar Street, I remember sitting with my mother, fiddling with tassels on my skirt during the interminable Musaf. I remember the first year I had to fast, days after I became Bat Mitzvah, staying in Micah and Bev's apartment in the Old City and sleeping all afternoon, feeling sick. I remember Yom Kippur at yeshiva in Jerusalem: I remember girls sitting in the black street, white dresses scattered across the four silent lanes of Rechov Herzog. If I think about it, I remember Yom Kippur at Meredith's house, before her family moved from Brooklyn to the Five Towns; I slept in her brother's room, and, during the break from Shul, I read Portnoy's Complaint. I remember Yom Kippur in Cambridge: waiting out the last few minutes of the fast with Steve and Gil and Gil's sister Tamar, and, a few years later, pregnant, walking home up Oxford Street.


posted by Rosasharn 10:23 AM
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Tuesday, September 11, 2012
I remember the spookiness of dinner in Windows on the World: clouds obscuring and revealing the scores of miles we could see, and the slight feel of the building swaying.  A restaurant in the clouds: the rest of the building was pretty much empty, but you took those super-fast, ear-popping elevators straight up to a kind of movie set.  Later, in May of 2001, we went to a restaurant in Cyprus, the Maryland House (!), which was on the finished top floor of a building the rest of which was just girders and scaffolds, under construction with no sheathing put in yet: you took a construction elevator to get there and then you were in a dark and lovely room.  Windows on the World was like that too.  I remember not even thinking about what a daylight meal, what breakfast, would be like there, amidst the bright blue of day, until reading about the people who were killed there on September 11.  Clean, crisp napkins, bright, cold water in crystal: that's what my experience and my imagined experience had in common.


posted by William 8:38 AM
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Sunday, September 09, 2012
I remember, starting sixth grade, that the cool kids wore their watches on the inside of their wrists, a little like the wrist-protectors that the Greek and Trojan warriors wore in the illustrations in my Myths and Legends book.  My father and grandfathers didn't, but Peter Rogers did, and so I did too.  It was the closest I could come in sixth grade to the cool kids' desert boots and long hair.


posted by William 4:47 PM
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