what stays, what goes
Memoirs make me a little twitchy. I like them well enough, but at some point, inevitably, I start thinking about what I don't remember. What I ate. What the weather was like. Who said what, when. The things from middle school and high school, the tiniest little things, I remember. I wrote them all down, obsessively, tirelessly, analytically. I don't have that urge anymore, but I want it, or at least part of it, back; I want the part that records the fact that T. made creme eggs for Boobs & Dragons night, that notes down the Snap sour ingredients for later re-creation, that memorizes S.'s face when we're driving through run-down small Catskills towns in the rain.
Either I have to write more, or I have to take a lot more pictures. I can't remember everything. There are too many things. I don't know if I'm forgetful or overflowing, and it freaks me out a little. What did we do? Where did we go? Why do I remember so clearly the first place I ate fried pickles, yet I have to carefully visualize what I did, or didn't do, for New Year's Eve the year before last?
I don't have the gift for trusting that the important parts stay. But most of them do.
I should still write more.
*
Today, I've been full time at my job for a year. I have flowers, macarons, a giant bag of jelly beans, and a pile of books I bought for myself. And also decision problems about what to read next. The memoir I just read was so deceptive, so clean, so casual and intimate that the next book has to fit right in next to it. It's been all women writers for a while and I'd like it to stay that way, but my book group is reading Robert Sheckley, and I can't resist a Buffy comic for long.
*
All this is avoiding saying that I started typing with blurry vision because my second-favorite cat, K.'s cat, is gone from the world now, and I don't have a poker face. She mostly only tolerated me and my affections, but she slept on me once, and I knew I was accepted. She was the opposite of my lap-loving, attention-grabbing little beast, in color and temperament, and I liked knowing she was on the other side of the country, balancing everything out.
Either I have to write more, or I have to take a lot more pictures. I can't remember everything. There are too many things. I don't know if I'm forgetful or overflowing, and it freaks me out a little. What did we do? Where did we go? Why do I remember so clearly the first place I ate fried pickles, yet I have to carefully visualize what I did, or didn't do, for New Year's Eve the year before last?
I don't have the gift for trusting that the important parts stay. But most of them do.
I should still write more.
*
Today, I've been full time at my job for a year. I have flowers, macarons, a giant bag of jelly beans, and a pile of books I bought for myself. And also decision problems about what to read next. The memoir I just read was so deceptive, so clean, so casual and intimate that the next book has to fit right in next to it. It's been all women writers for a while and I'd like it to stay that way, but my book group is reading Robert Sheckley, and I can't resist a Buffy comic for long.
*
All this is avoiding saying that I started typing with blurry vision because my second-favorite cat, K.'s cat, is gone from the world now, and I don't have a poker face. She mostly only tolerated me and my affections, but she slept on me once, and I knew I was accepted. She was the opposite of my lap-loving, attention-grabbing little beast, in color and temperament, and I liked knowing she was on the other side of the country, balancing everything out.