Well davethepa has inspired me to have a drink and write something intelligent.
Step one: Have a drink.
Status: In progress. I'm drinking a glass of my precious Baltika 6 (253).
Step two: Write something intelligent.
I'm feeling a little drained today. I've spent some time thinking about things that, in all honesty, would probably best be forgotten. Things that, until recently, I simply couldn't think about without my memory quickly degrading into a mess of confabulation and self-pity.
I was thinking about a day last Fall. On that day I learned that pain is relative. That sometimes feeling a little bit of pain can be a wonderful thing. Like when you've spent the past two weeks in complete misery. When you're flying to another city, and sort of hoping that the plane will crash, then five hours later your pain is eased. Not erased. Just eased. But you don't care about the pain that's left, because you know that it could be a lot worse. That it was a lot worse.
I learned that lesson last Fall, then I almost immediately forgot it.
But this is not what I wanted to write about.
What I wanted to write about was how, when I think about that day, specifically about that two minute conversation, I remember everything.
I remember what I was wearing.
I remember that the magazine on the table in my room had a picture of a showgirl on the cover. A girl that looked like my sister Dina.
I remember that I let the phone ring three times before I answered it, and that I waited three seconds before I said "Hello."
I remember that there was traffic in the background, behind her voice. I heard a horn honk. Twice.
I remember that I lit a cigarette, then realized that I already had one lit.
I remember every word that we said.
I remember putting the phone down on the table.
I remember starting to laugh.
Why my brain has decided to store all of these details, I have no idea. I'm not normally possessed of such a memory. That day, that conversation, they were certainly important, but c'mon. I remember how she stressed each syllable when she spoke. Almost perfect iambic pentameter. What possible good does that memory do me?
Now don't get me wrong. I'm glad that I remember. It was important after all. I don't want to forget, and I don't think I ever will.
But is remembering that a couple walked down the hall outside my room discussing their plans to go see Mystere that night really more important than remembering what I did with the fucking registration sticker for my truck?