24 April 2008
Remembering
)Published on April 24th, 2008 @ 10:05:41 am, using 768 words, 56 views
Taking a page from Paul Auster’s book (both figuratively and literally) and REMEMBERING.
He remembers that he gave himself a new name, John, because all cowboys were named John, and that each time his mother addressed him by his real name he would refuse to answer her. He remembers running out of the house and lying in the middle of the road with his eyes shut, waiting for a car to run him over. He remembers that his grandfather gave him a large photograph of Gabby Hayes and that it sat in a place of honor on the top of his bureau. He remembers thinking the world was flat. He remembers learning how to tie his shoes. He remembers that his father’s clothes were kept in the closet in his room and that it was the noise of hangers clicking together in the morning that would wake him up. He remembers the sight of his father knotting his tie and saying to him, Rise and shine little boy. He remembers wanting to be a squirrel, because he wanted to be light like a squirrel and have a bushy tail and be able to jump from tree to tree as though he were flying. He remembers looking through the venetian blinds and seeing his new-born sister coming home from the hospital in his mother’s arms. He remembers the nurse in a white dress who sat beside his baby sister and gave him little squares of Swiss chocolate. He remembers that she called them Swiss although he did not know what that meant. He remembers lying in bed at dusk in midsummer and looking at the tree through his window and seeing different faces in the configuration of the branches.
At that, I put the book down and began my own list of ’she remembers’ on this last of my carefree days, just as the intervals between eyeing the clock are getting shorter and shorter.
She remembers being sung to sleep in her father’s arms. She remembers having her mother’s heavy but efficient hands braid her hair. She remembers caring for dolls as though they were her own children. She remembers being startled yet collected seeing despair from a kayak, depicted as hands in the air - her father, suddenly ant-size, motioning her to come back to the shore. She remembers the smell of C.F. from her childhood, now only present in other places. She remembers walking towards a pay phone as it begins to drizzle and swelling up as she utters the word editor-in-chief. She remembers the corner of 18th and 8th as a place where she’d always find something she’d like. She remembers early morning snow in Queens and feeling nothing like one. She remembers the awe with which she gazed at Van Gogh’s Van Goghs at LACMA. She remembers lying on a deck half surrounded by water while not being the least bit scared as bats flew overhead. She remembers whose tears always hurt her the most. She remembers her enthusiasm over the size of her father’s Galaxy - jumping from front to back seat like the child she was. She remembers staying up all night for fear of tiny creatures. She remembers all the lies that once sounded like truth. She remembers waiting in the car in front of a newsstand, shrinking under the realization that secrets were not for her. She remembers the soothing feeling of hands on dog fur. She remembers jumping peculiarly and making her mother laugh while waiting for her yearly check up. She remembers a class where all she did was cast furtive glances at J.M. who sat on a desk to her left. She remembers her father’s green crystal Mosel wine glass that simply enchanted her. She remembers beautiful music being played on a May afternoon. She remembers the red spot next to her left eye that used to give away she’d been crying. She remembers dipping her index finger in her father’s beer. She remembers a funny dessert name. She remembers the moment she first considered writing about Last Words. She remembers the moment she started paying attention to Last Words.
And here are the last words from The Invention of Solitude:
He finds a fresh sheet of paper. He lays it out on the table before him and writes these words with his pen.
It was. It will never be again. Remember.
Damien Rice - I remember/O
This post is the creative work of Iris Watts Hirideyo and is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 License.
Remembering, The Invention of Solitude, Paul Auster, cowboy, John, squirrel, swiss, trees, branches, braid, dolls, kayak, crying, May, last words, Damien Rice
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