June 5th, 2010 / 2:33 pm
Snippets
Snippets
Ken Baumann—
The more you remember something, the less accurate the memory becomes. (from an article titled Memory Is Fiction)
This is probably why it’s so hard for me to remember being born.
I dislike this. Sad.
Why? You don’t have to equate accuracy with beauty. Is beauty ever static?
Can’t wait for you to see Enter The Void.
So excited for it.
I have long wondered about my inability to recall instances in my childhood, only to start to “remember” them after prompting by family/friends. If I just sit and try to “remember” my childhood, I mostly come up with a series of already constructed memories and little else. A greatest hits list, so to speak. Very interesting.
This is probably why it’s so hard for me to remember being born.
Some people like truth.
I dislike this. Sad.
Why? You don’t have to equate accuracy with beauty. Is beauty ever static?
Can’t wait for you to see Enter The Void.
i disagree. I keep trying to re-live me disc golf aces, to get a glow later, and the only way I think I can remember is to like replay the shots in my mind, before I fall asleep maybe, then they “seat” in my memory.
But of course this question really gets to the core of CNF. The “truth” of memoir, etc.
There is none.
Memory is a beached whale, gasping, thinking it knew something called water.
Have you read “Proust Was a Neuroscientist”? Or know anything about it?
Because it is one of the titles waiting on my nightstand.
(Proust waits on my nightstand also.) (Why?)
I was a sucker for the title.
I am, admittedly, a sucker for this “type” of title.
And I want to read all of Proust before I die, not knowing, of course, when I will run out of “time”.
(Tequila)
memory is like the game ‘telephone’ if you played with yourself for any time longer than a year
A steady diet of no-memory, then.
I haven’t yet, but I want to. Jonah’s blog (the linked) is great.
No wonder I can never remember anything! I’ve been playing with myself a lot longer than a year.
A whale longing for water.
Take me back, … please, … I must,… I’m gasping, …
I’m clawing, … (A whale does not have claws but I do.)
I won’t, …
I won’t let go, …
I won’t, …
I beg you, …
Take me back, …
A collective clutching in the chest …
A collective clawing …
We all know what it feels like.
Yeah, ” big fleshy ears” turns into “purple monkey penis”.
So excited for it.
memory’s just another word for nothing left to lose? faux puns aside, your memory is who you are, a protean cloud of the distant, recent and immediate past’s events as processed by whatever the hell a personality is.
@mimi by the time i got to “(Tequila)”, i immediately began ideating images of pee wee herman doing his big-shoe tequila dance to the sounds of that sax… bah dop bada bop-bop, bop. bop…
I have long wondered about my inability to recall instances in my childhood, only to start to “remember” them after prompting by family/friends. If I just sit and try to “remember” my childhood, I mostly come up with a series of already constructed memories and little else. A greatest hits list, so to speak. Very interesting.
white platforms, tequila, hand-jive moves, uh-huh
Some people like truth.
i disagree. I keep trying to re-live me disc golf aces, to get a glow later, and the only way I think I can remember is to like replay the shots in my mind, before I fall asleep maybe, then they “seat” in my memory.
But of course this question really gets to the core of CNF. The “truth” of memoir, etc.
There is none.
Memory is a beached whale, gasping, thinking it knew something called water.
Have you read “Proust Was a Neuroscientist”? Or know anything about it?
Because it is one of the titles waiting on my nightstand.
(Proust waits on my nightstand also.) (Why?)
I was a sucker for the title.
I am, admittedly, a sucker for this “type” of title.
And I want to read all of Proust before I die, not knowing, of course, when I will run out of “time”.
(Tequila)
memory is like the game ‘telephone’ if you played with yourself for any time longer than a year
A steady diet of no-memory, then.
I haven’t yet, but I want to. Jonah’s blog (the linked) is great.
No wonder I can never remember anything! I’ve been playing with myself a lot longer than a year.
A whale longing for water.
Take me back, … please, … I must,… I’m gasping, …
I’m clawing, … (A whale does not have claws but I do.)
I won’t, …
I won’t let go, …
I won’t, …
I beg you, …
Take me back, …
A collective clutching in the chest …
A collective clawing …
We all know what it feels like.
Yeah, ” big fleshy ears” turns into “purple monkey penis”.
white platforms, tequila, hand-jive moves, uh-huh
this is why journalists need to have recordings of their interviews, or something else to back up their stories but memoirists don’t. as much as it pisses people off, memoirs are held to a different standard than news stories and what counts as truth is different in both of them.
this is why journalists need to have recordings of their interviews, or something else to back up their stories but memoirists don’t. as much as it pisses people off, memoirs are held to a different standard than news stories and what counts as truth is different in both of them.