Plum, my Grandma, once taught me a trick. She told me to create a house in my mind and place things I wanted to remember in very specific spots within the house. Thomas Jefferson and John Adams both died on July 4th in the upstairs hall closet next to my old bed sheets. It's an association trick with a twist to organize your mind and it works, it really does.
I don't have a great memory. It's been this way for as long as I can remember (ha, ha-I couldn't resist). Sometimes I even make up memories, confusing things other people have done for something I once did. I'll steal your memories, even the bad ones, like Lauren getting caught coloring the sitting room couch with markers. I would have sworn to you that it was me who had colored the couches if my Mom and sister hadn't corrected me. Even then, I still didn't believe them
(and still don't).
My less than sharp memory is often quite embarrassing. I imagine people think I'm dumb but I'm not, I promise. I also saw that movie and probably enjoyed it just as much as anyone else, I just can't remember who directed it and might even mix up the actors' names. People are quick to point out my mistakes and it usually makes me angry. I know it shouldn't, it would almost be more embarrassing to have them not correct me because they feel sorry for me. I immediately go into defensive mode because I believe memory is something that makes people look smart. Knowing and being able to rattle off facts sounds impressive, gives support to what you are saying and generally gets you grades (but not in English, thank god).
I've come to realize that while I may not have the best factual memory, I have a very acute sensory memory. Yesterday evening I was walking through my neighborhood to go to class. The sun was fading, it was warm, I took my time. Every so often I would smell honeysuckle. The scent is strong and sweet and I almost believed I was playing in the creek behind my neighbors house where honeysuckle grew wild and we pulled the stems out of the flower to suck the nectar. I passed a man who smelled softly of a detergent my Mom must have once used to wash clothes. It was comforting. Certain smells, songs, articles of clothing and inflections of light can sweep me into a bright nostalgia. It usually makes me very happy and sad all at once.
Reading Faulkner stimulated thoughts about my own memory and how it works. In college I took a course where we were encouraged to leave the classic notion of reading behind. Instead, we were to absorb words, phrases and images and take what we could from the text. This is how I've been reading The Sound and the Fury. Faulkner uses certain words and images to evoke memories, memories that are scattered throughout present time in a very associative but non-linear manner. I've heard that Faulkner is a very daunting author to read, but I felt a certain ease while I've read this book. I don't think he intended for the reader to put every memory in its rightful place or remember what happened and when, exactly. He writes to create a feeling or a vague but pressingly important memory.
I'd like to think Faulkner would never correct me.
Last night I was looking through some of my old photos to work into a project. When I saw these pictures, I was vividly taken back to a memory of two years ago. I was taken back to the warm light of the sun going down by the train tracks. I remembered Drew taking pictures of Kevin smoking a cigarette as the train roared by. I remembered balancing on the tracks, wondering how far I could walk and if I should find out. I remembered the deer and how it ran off into the woods (I promise). And remembering all those things, well, it makes me happy with my blurry and whispering memory.
