Blather, rinse, repeat

I guess I've probably mentioned a few times that I have a really good memory. Actually it's a bit more than just "good." I can vividly recall things in ridiculous detail from my early childhood. I think it's because I spend a lot of time thinking about these things, and always have. I suppose I've always liked being here, and collecting moments. I've kept a diary since I was able to write. My Dad gave it to me, a little one with a lock on it. It's covered in scribbles about grade school, my Dad's band practice, things like that. But it's actually stuff outside of my diary that I remember the most, and the most clearly. And I remember them with all senses, too. (People reading Qualia: I guess this is where Professor Leander's "memories are like the present" issue comes from. It's sort of like what I do, only amped up to fictional levels.)

Tonight I had this one specific memory that comes to me once in a while on nights like tonight, and I mentioned it to my Mom after we watched Family Guy at her house. That led to me thinking of more things from my childhood and rambling about those moments. Then I thought, well you know, I should write this in my LJ.

They don't mean anything to anyone but me, and I probably can't really put them into words that will do them justice—me, the noveliste. I try, though.

The memory I had tonight was one that springs up on me on summer nights that are cool like this one. I don't know what triggers it, exactly. I don't know if it's crickets or the tree frogs, or a smell in the air, or the moon and stars being positioned just so. It's a really small memory, too.

I'm about 5. Mom, Dad and I are leaving the house of my Dad's two friends, Eric and Virginia, or "Big E and Ginny." I'm half asleep and Dad is carrying me through the mudroom as they say good night. There are a few steps down; their house has lots of trees around it. Everyone had sat around this little nook, me in the corner falling asleep on the bench. I fall asleep in the car, and when I wake up we're passing a sign with a big Z that means we're almost home. I think of Zest soap. Dad is talking about the number of an exit on the LIE. Then, Dad is carrying me through the yard. For some reason we're in the back yard by the side door and I'm looking at the trees.

And that's the whole memory. But it's a really nice memory because I'm happy to be home and something nice is going on. I'm not clear on what it is; I'm just in a good mood. I like the weather, or something.

I told this to Mom tonight and she says that the big, lighted Z was a sign on a business that used to be "Seven Zs." (Which was still around even about 15 years ago, but with no lighted sign.) And as for the number of the exits, that year they had added two more exits to the LIE so that ours was no longer the last. She guesses that's what they were talking about.

It's very weird, really eerie, how completely I can still go back to that night and really be there, as if it never stopped happening.

***
( Grandma's wake. )

***
( The moon out the window. )

***

( A field of dandelions. )

***
( Jaws and the beanbag doll. )


***
( Red velvet and the noon alarm. )

***
( It's called a procession. )

***
( George and Georgette. )

***
( I've cut the dickens out of my finger. )


***
( Stolen ice cubes. )


***
( Honeysweet. )

***
There are tons and tons or memories that I've stored like this. Some small like these moments, some much more significant, powerful ones, just as vivid (meeting my brothers and sister for the first time, my baby cousin's death, birthday parties, firsts and lasts, the day John Lennon was murdered and my hamster died on the same day,) and maybe someday I'll continue the task of writing those down, too – journaling things I never thought to journal when I was a child, but it didn't matter because they're somehow still with me, and I can call up every detail.

Strange, how memories work like that. And I don't mean to sound trite or anything, but it really is strange, how you can be outside of "now" like that, as if those moments never ended.

I guess, when I think about it, that's what Qualia is about after all.

No surprise, maybe.