Saving memory

[vaneramos]

Kye Yeon Son, Vessel for memory, 2004, sterling silver, copper, enamel, gold leaf; from In service, an exhibit of nine Canadian fine metalworkers at Macdonald Stewart Art Centre until February 27

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I am haunted by that small white spark in the centre of the cluster of brain cells in the memorial film at the art centre. It still reminds me of a firefly or pixie moving comfortably around its living dwelling while the woven walls, not unlike the structure of this silver vessel, gradually unravel. Once the walls have vanished, it escapes across the screen and disappears, reappearing later in retrospective visions about the artist's work.

At the end our brains may slowly unwind. My father's mother, Fern Waffle, suffered a series of minor strokes which confined her to bed requiring constant care during the final year or so of her life. The last time I saw her she mistook me for her husband, Silvanus Waffle, who had died 13 years earlier. Old Van was doing the thing he loved best one day a couple weeks before his 82nd birthday: weeding tomatoes in the garden. The next day he felt sick and stayed in bed, then died in his sleep that night. He probably knew his heart was ready to give out, but if he had said anything to Fern she would have wanted to keep him alive. I'm sure he wanted to go that way, with a pleasant summer day in the garden the last thing he had to look back on.

Pappy carried vivid memories of his early life, too. He would tell long tales about how he moved to Windsor to work in the new Ford plant in the early 1920's so he could earn a high enough wage to win consent from Fern's father for their marriage. He would tell bout the summers in his late teens when he went to work as a harvester in Manitoba and Saskatchewan. He wrote it all down. The family still has his memoirs, which I edited and compiled into a neat volume in November 1995, 11 years after his death.

Reading through the pages of my own journals from that time, I'm struck by the things I remember: the shocks, the life-changing decisions. And the things I don't remember: a walk on a summer evening with my infant daughter. I am grateful for the time I took to write down small sensual incidents I would otherwise forget. The things that add together to make a lifetime worth remembering.

I'm often startled by the different ways people remember things. Habitually I would stumble around the apartment looking for my keys or a book, only finding them by trial and error. But when Danny visits, he will invariably know where that item is, even a thing of insignificance to him. I wonder whether he walks through my rooms and automatically sees them photographically in his recollection. Lately I have started the habit of always keeping my wallet and keys in one place with the Rolaids and Certs and Tic-Tacs. My notebook and fountain pen are there, too. Everything else is finding places since I recently reordered my living world: the baking soda, the three-hole punch that was lost for six months, my art papers, my favourite cock ring.

The problem with needing one's world so orderly is that when something fails to turn up in the correct place, when it can't be seen among so many clear surfaces, it might as well be lost.

The same way, parts of my life are irretrievable. Episodes of depression have that effect. Maybe that's why I write so fanatically, to get it all down so I can remind myself that this single day held something meaningful. That I bent over and put my nose to the heart of a fading yellow rose.




I'm experimenting with an art journal. I filled these pages last night. The design at left was copied from one half of the cover of the ceiling light in my office. It's for the ED weekly challenge to draw a lamp.

Comments

[kwintt.livejournal.com]

Yes, journaling to remember. Exactly. Looking back to my childhood and realizing how many details have been lost, I journal today so that will not happen again some day when I am of advanced age. When one is very very old, all we have are our memories. How sad it would be for them to be beyond our reach. Journaling will help prompt recall.

I like the ceiling lamp motif and think it makes a fine border. Is the rose a photo or a drawing? Either way it is lovely.

[vaneramos.livejournal.com]

At Christmastime I interviewed Mom and Dad about their early lives and family legends. I have a couple hours of tape-recorded conversation that need to be transcribed, but I hope to post some of it here when I get around to it. My parents are a lot more clear about their memories than I will ever be. This is another treasure to hold onto.

The rose is a drawing. I taught myself Prismacolor technique partly from a book on drawing flowers seven years ago, and it was fun to pull it out again last night. Flickers of memory there, too! This rose is from the same bouquet as I photographed and drew the other day on black paper. That sketch was more interesting in some ways, but I like roses so much I wanted to record one in more detail.

Silvanus Waffle

[queenmomcat.livejournal.com]

[wistful sigh] That's how I'd like to go.

Re: Silvanus Waffle

[vaneramos.livejournal.com]

Me too. My mom's mom keeled over in her kitchen last summer: an aneurysm. The coroner said she probably died before she hit the floor. Her husband had a long and painful excursion with cancer. It looks like my chances are 50-50.

[artricia.livejournal.com]

I'm often startled by the different ways people remember things. Habitually I would stumble around the apartment looking for my keys or a book, only finding them by trial and error. But when Danny visits, he will invariably know where that item is, even a thing of insignificance to him.

E. and I work together well on this: he remembers where things are if they're left out, where they don't belong, and I remember where things are if they're put away properly. But we can't switch very well at all. It always amazes me that E. can't remember where things go -- but then it always delights me when he knows where I left something.

[vaneramos.livejournal.com]

Gee, I have the worst of both ways. This morning I sat down at the desk with my coffee, ready to write my morning pages. I pulled open the drawer in the end table where I keep my reading materials, and the notebook wasn't there. For 10 seconds I was bewildered. I scanned my office. The notebook was nowhere to be seen. Then I remembered I keep it the desk drawer. I've been keeping it there for three weeks since I reorganized my office, and I've used it every day except one or two. Why am I confused? I still don't understand how my brain works, or how I've survived almost 41 years.