Beyond the Pale
Tom,I'm not sure if i would be better off with no memory of any given yesterday;this perhaps poses the question perfectly..
Manik,We once lived in a small town by the ocean, and when, one morning, a fellow turned up on the beach claiming not to be able to remember anything, including his name, people accepted this at face value, and his name became No Memory, and things went on much as before.
if it wasn't for my memoryi wouldn't have no sex
Ed,Now here I was halfway successful in my forgetting of my own private yesterday when you come and remind me that I probably remember more of your private Mondays, Tuesdays and holy days sex wise than you do yourself, just from the congenial sharings you've brought here over the years. In fact I can't exactly say I miss those, but at least I can honestly say that the iconic yellow sweater ranks high on my icon shelf of strange phantasmal presque-vu memories. Houston Street. Who will ever forget.And with that, as in Prouxt -- or was it Proulx -- Proust?? -- it all comes flooding back, sprung by the smoke of the overcooked yellow sweater emanating from the broken dryer... yesterday, all of it, the trapeze artist dangling out the window, the nosy witness staring, the broken steps, the shipping news, the deer eating the hydrangea, and enclosing it all much as a large gas bubble, the traditional curious silence of the holiday, with its eerie lack of car crashes.Let me get on with the forgetting of that, for soon enough there will be more work to be done, doubtless along much the same lines.
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