Not yet remembered

IMG_5548I sometimes wear Eberhard’s Stetson to get Charlotte at school, and stand outside with the other parents waiting for her to appear in the doorway — and when she does and sees me with the hat, she turns pink and walks ahead pretending we’re not together, answers my questions about her day with clipped replies, says she wishes I wouldn’t wear that when I come get her.

Dawn tells me about a story she heard on Radiolab, how our memories are in fact the last memory of the time we remembered and they change each time we remember them: it’s not like a Polaroid fading, the actual content in the picture changes.

And this happens with past visits to Germany we recall: that spring the year my stepdad died in 2008, I remember it was April because a record just came out by one of my favorite singers and it was called April, and the songs were like a soundtrack to the spring rain, they had the same somber, restorative feel — but it was different than the records that came before and I didn’t like it because I wanted him to sound the way I expected, I wanted him to sound the same.

Mom made friends with a Parisian guy named Gilles who lives in the town and picked us up at the airport, but drove exceptionally fast on the Autobahn and bristled when Dawn asked if he could slow down (Charlotte was only six months old and Lily, just three), and then Gilles and Eberhard got in an argument about the fastest route to the airport which is funny now that I know the way, the only thing to argue about is whether or not you get off at Mannheim or keep going on the A6 — but there was probably more reason still for them to argue.

And apart from the pictures, there’s not much more we can remember from that visit. Mom confided some things she learned about Gilles that seemed peculiar, and after John died the two of them were friends for a time, but in that desperate way outsiders bond with fellow outsiders, the friendship can turn edgy, and maybe there’s a reason they’re on the outside, maybe they should remain there.

Gilles’s apartment is dominated by a vase with dead roses in the center that he keeps from the girl who broke his heart, or possibly the very flowers he last offered her but she wouldn’t accept, and why he saved them I don’t know, it sucks the energy from the space: or why he keeps a shoebox full of every toothbrush he’s used over the years: we can’t bring ourselves to ask why he just won’t throw them out and perhaps it’s better we don’t know the reason.

John was losing the sensation in his hands and couldn’t play guitar the same, he was going behind a fog of depression and it seemed his drinking took on a dark tint. He slept on the same side of the bed I do now with an oxygen mask and when I looked in on him that morning we left for the airport flying home, I wondered if it would be the last.

I tap the window on the train and point for Dawn to look out, coming back yesterday from Vienna, the cloud deck thickening as the mountains got bigger outside of Salzburg and gaps in the clouds made spotlights for the sun on the meadows, all the shades of green, light and dark, all the places we could go but probably never would.

We’re taking turns reading The Unbearable Lightness of Being, and he talks about time, the fact that dogs don’t see it the same way we do: whereas for us time is linear, for dogs it moves in circles like the hands on the face of a clock — how time and incidents have dimension to them if we notice the beauty and peculiarity in life, the fact that themes unfold around us and repeat like the movements in a classical music piece — how we miss each other in relationships, and pass by so close.

A long weekend for Dawn and me to celebrate our anniversary, this springtime in Vienna, tourists outside our hotel in the quiet of the morning stirring with their guidebooks and cameras, trying to be a part of it all and at the same time unseen.

I have to come back to our room for a lie-down after the museum while Dawn goes on to another; I have to clear my mind from the stimulation of the paintings, the weight of all there is to know and feel: the rows of self-portraits along the walls and the artists’ sad faces trapped inside themselves looking out from their creations, waiting to be seen.

I didn’t plan it this way, but now that we’re ending our time here the pages in my notepad are running out and I have to get creative using any available space, and my handwriting looks like ants taking to the margins in a procession along the edges — it has that same busy look of ants where you wonder if they know what they’re doing or where they’re going, they look so determined.

And at night, my memories of where we’ve been criss-cross and flutter in and out of one another and become indistinct. It’s a tapestry of leaves and streets I go beneath, these times and faces, these scenes we love, this life, what little we remember is still more than enough. It coats my dreams and leaves patches behind the next morning.

Like the hands of a clock we move in the same quarter hour increments dividing life into portions, sometimes noticing the sound of the tolls but most times not, and sometimes it seems they ring at different rates, more in circles than lines; the dogs have it right.

We saw Gilles again on his bike going by but now he and my mom don’t talk, and I’ll wave hello but he’ll pretend he doesn’t see me or look away, or I’ll do the same.

But last week, Dawn got up from our table to talk to him while we were sitting outside the Hirsch and I did the same, and he told me he should have died, they said there was a 70% chance he would but he didn’t, and he asked about my job and my writing, and said well, you know where I live if you want to stop by before you leave, and I haven’t decided yet if I will.

Beethoven poster, music school, Vienna

Beethoven poster, music school, Vienna

 

 

 

 

About pinklightsabre

William Pearse publishes memoir, travel journals, poetry and prose, and lives in the Pacific Northwest.
This entry was posted in travel, writing and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

16 Responses to Not yet remembered

  1. rossmurray1 says:

    I find myself so frustrated these days by all I can’t remember. This weekend, the swing set I dismantled. Did that come from the neighbour’s or did we walk it over from a house a couple of streets over? Why when I think of old girlfriends, even the really important ones, can I only remember the fooling around? I distrust rock star memoirs.
    This is a super piece, especially this: “what little remember is still more than enough.” So I feel better now.

    Liked by 1 person

    • pinklightsabre says:

      Thanks for being in the now with me, man. There’s no better. Bill

      Liked by 1 person

    • pinklightsabre says:

      I need to actually listen to the Radiolab piece Dawn was telling me about. The context is that they were treating soldiers with PTSD using Ecstasy, having the soldiers talk about their experiences in a ‘safe,’ intimate environment with a therapist, and thereby like editing the memory so that when they remembered it again, it had a nicer quality to it. And it seemed to work. I mean, whatever for that, right? I’m glad they’re working on it. Memories are weird, funny, and become our reality, so much of what’s happened, and yet editable…maybe impossible to retain in their original format. Better that way for you and your old girlfriends, the fooling around parts.

      Liked by 1 person

      • Yahooey says:

        Memory is very editable. It’s even possible to create memories of things that never happened:
        http://www.newyorker.com/tech/elements/false-memory-crime

        Liked by 1 person

      • pinklightsabre says:

        Funny to think how easy it is to believe the unbelievable, even about ourselves, with enough convincing. I’m playing with those ideas in my story rewrite, about the nature of truth and what we believe…fun stuff. Thanks for sharing the article. Reminds me too of some parts of 1984, the total mind control thing, by way of confessing to false crimes, and then steadfastly believing in them.

        Liked by 1 person

      • Yahooey says:

        The ministry of love.

        Sadly I’ve known too many mythomaniacs. Watching them change a story I was a part of, knowing that they absolutely believe what they are saying is the truth is … interesting.

        Liked by 1 person

      • rossmurray1 says:

        Yes, but the big breakup, the one that broke my heart. Why can’t I remember why she broke up with me? I only remember the pain and anger, not the reason for it. These things bother me. I need to pull a High Fidelity and track all these girls down.

        Liked by 1 person

      • pinklightsabre says:

        There’s something to that, what you remember and don’t, and why.

        Like

  2. “and when she does and sees me with the hat, she turns pink and walks ahead pretending we’re not together”… When shes older she will have this memory of you forever in her head and in turn she will tell everybody, “Remember that hat?” and she will be transported right back to that moment, reliving it again with (or without) you all over again

    Liked by 1 person

    • pinklightsabre says:

      That’s cool you noted that, I was going for that — thanks my friend. It’s a totally self-indulgent forum, a weird kind of photo album. You got it. Thanks for reading. Bill

      Liked by 1 person

  3. byebyebeer says:

    Love the family photo and description of words as ants marching along precious page space. Part of me hopes you’ll visit Gilles and write about it but your time sounds just as precious. I really like the idea of circles of time and themes repeating, even if I feel a bit confused by it (like a dog).

    Like

    • pinklightsabre says:

      Hi Kristen — thanks! Glad you like the photo and the bit about the ants. Definitely feels like my words are like that sometimes, poking fun at myself too. And the time and dog tail chasing thing, yes I am going down those holes for a bit to see what I can find. Cheers, and best to you and yours. Bill

      Like

  4. Enjoyed both these pieces — today’s and tomorrow’s — but especially the memory stuff. Strange, the older you get the more fluid memory becomes and you start to suspect that the words to “Row Row Row Your Boat” are pretty accurate …

    Liked by 1 person

    • pinklightsabre says:

      There’s a lot to play with there. Grateful to you for the Kundera inspiration, thank you Kevin: loving that. Bill

      Like

  5. gregg johnson says:

    great photo of you and your family….can’t beleive how much the girls have changed! best,

    gregg

    gregg s johnson cell: 206.399.3066 email: gregg@greggsjohnson.com

    >

    Like

    • pinklightsabre says:

      I can’t believe how much we’ve all changed and haven’t at the same time…yes, will see you soon. Can’t wait Gregg! Bill

      Like

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