Wednesday, August 20, 2014

The Great Vacuum Or Holding On To The Log While Being Swept Downstream

At night when I lie down to sleep I begin a furious interior monologue in which I construct a series of notions all of which I realize would make wonderful blog subjects.  In the morning I can remember none of them.  Why do I not then sit up in bed, take pen and paper and write these ideas down?  A) I am lazy, and B) I do not want to make myself that alert when I am lying, zolpidem-filled, ready for sleep, and C) I do not want to break the spell, nor the chain of creation that stopping to write down one of those thoughts would induce.  So I sigh, hope I will remember, always forget, forget even that I had that late night conversation with myself until it is dimly recalled as I am busy with reading The New York Times.  When I am out and about I sometimes have a conversation with someone in which a worthwhile bit of information is given me verbally.  More often than not I will not remember the slightest detail nor, indeed, the person who imparted whatever it was to me.  I cannot ever keep in my head any set of numbers beyond my cellphone number and my "social" as they nowadays call it.  Even my husband's cellphone number which he has had for as long as I have had mine eludes me.  I live in terror that I will not have my cellphone with me, or that it will suddenly run out of power, or that I will lose the capacity for pressing the requisite buttons.  Oddly enough, I do remember what I read in the paper each morning, remember the narratives of the novels I read, remember the gist of the non-fiction books I read, the articles in journals, well, pretty much, although I have to admit sometimes I read an issue of a journal only to realize dimly as I go along that I have read this all before.  But this forgetfulness, some part of it is really that I am distracted by the anxiety of living, by the necessity of paying such close attention to the process, watching how I go down stairs, how I step off curbs, walk along sidewalks, drive the car, carry dishes to the sink.  More and more nothing is routine, but requires a self-conscious application of technique.  I am content enough to live so furiously in the here and now, which is, I suppose, why it is such a temptation every so often to slip into the memories of decades ago which unlike the events of yesterday appear easily to me, crystal clear, firmly etched, supremely true.

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