Our prescriptions aren't close. I'm hard of seeing, as they would say, if they were cleverer.
So it's been some time right? And... Autobiographical isn't a voice I can summon so easily. I was talking about this - about during what I perceived to be a golden age for old Livejournal - maybe 10-12 years ago? You'd have this practice, especially among other livejournalists, where you'd be generating critique and recitation of what you were doing while you did it. So you'd have a layered awareness of what was what while you'd be doing what you're doing. An extra depth added to the experience.
Now my autobiographical memory is somehow weaker. And here's I guess what I've come here to talk about, after all this time.
So what was it? Early October? It must have been - she came here to do a thing in an unpleasant place and I'm... I'm good at helping one face unpleasantness. I think about that line in Gatsby - something about how he had a nice smile and people must have told him so he smiled a lot & you could tell. I've got the right kind of imposing presence and people like to tell me about it and I am more imposing because of it. Like, I throw effort at it. It's 3:00 and 2 strangers have commented on my height today. That's regular. Strangers talk about how I look to me a lot. It's not weird for me.
So I'm good at hard appearances. That goes... a way. An okay way but still, there's someone else in the picture and I'm not anxious to join. It's just a Sunday night in October, maybe saturday.
Later I'm invited to her house - which is far off, in Chicago. And I go - that's much more dreamlike and idyllic. Then, a lot happens. It's very much like a dream, uncertain bounds between events - seemingly unrelated by any narrative- there are scenes and then scenes and then departures & arrivals. I went back, and then she came and we went to caves and then I went back and then she came again. I'm going next week. It's a lot of going & coming. I can't quite keep it straight.
Is it dreams & strangeness that makes it all so unrememberable? Or maybe, just maybe, it's antidepressant medicine. I thought of this. About how I did tend to have superior autobiographical recall - First Grade Ms. Morrison, blue eyes, 80's hair, smiled nice. Second grade Ms. Taylor, severe look, jowly, kind of harsh but also sweet, loving to me anyway. Brown on brown. Third Grade Mrs. Rupp, match-curls blue eyes, uninteresting, plain. Fourth Grade... I mean - it goes on, trust that I remember them all and more. Scenes and faces. And you know, they have said - that one dude, who had perfect recall, wasn't he some sadness-champ? Some hero of depressions? I get it. It makes sense - everything is mundane when you've already done it. Nothing is exactly a surprise when you've anticipated it. The most optimistic people I can think of were all salesmen, and dumb ones. To them - tomorrow would be the day it would happen. It would happen, certainly and do not doubt it, though it might be sensible to doubt it, or reasonable or even crazy not to doubt it. But if you can't remember your faults you can't believe they'll occur down the road.
But I have my work (Please consider buying and or reviewing!) and the work I'm paid to do, and my kid and family. In the same amounts - or more generously applied, slathered on really, a thick rind of sugar-gone-stiff over whatever essential force lies at the bottom or the center of the self.