Monday, February 13, 2012

Really, You Don't Remember?

I remember it easily.

Joe has no recall of it at all.

We discovered this as we were taking a Sunday drive through Winnipeg. Suddenly I remembered being here for a conference and us popping over to the gay bar for a drink after work. We don't often do this here in North America, over in the UK it's compulsory, so it was noteworthy. I wondered if I could find it from the landmarks I remembered from that trip. The whole time we talked about it, me bringing up things that happened, Joe simply not remembering, I struggled to get details right. It was a long time ago, the way five years can be a long time, and much of my recall is hazy.

I do remember being there. I could even pick out where we sat. Why that's so strongly identified in my memory, I don't know. Finally we did find it, though we had to depend on Ted, our GPS, to get us there. Even being outside Joe didn't remember. I have to admit, it's around where I thought it would be but I couldn't swear to it being in exactly the same place. It was closed but it looked like it might be accessible so we may drop by next weekend.

The reason I'm writing about this, essentially, non-event - two old guys looking for somewhere they'd been before, is because I realized that this blog has become kind of a diary of my life. We don't take pictures and I've never journalled so until writing here, there has been no kind of record of our life together. This blog has become a place where memories can live on rather than fade away to nothingness. While it isn't important, and while it doesn't hold a really special place in my heart, I don't want to forget a cold and sunny Sunday in Winnipeg driving around downtown and chatting with Joe. It's so ordinary that it means something.

I wonder if blogging makes all of us who engage in the practice more aware of daily doings. I wonder if the intentionality of writing regularly makes the mind focus on things normally experienced but not noticed, forgotten but not mourned. So, there you have it ... we spent an ordinary day talking about ordinary things. Remembering our travels and laughing about what we don't commit to memory. It was a nice day.

And it's preserved here. It may be more romantic to say 'We'll always have Paris' ... we'll Joe and I ... well, we'll always have Winnipeg.

Tomorrow's post took most of today's writing time so forgive this little wander - I've been putting together the Disability Blog Carnival ... it's done and ready to post at midnight tonight. See you there, admission is free and some of the carnys are cute.


Anonymous said...

Memory in details through writing is sometimes a very nice thing.

I tend to go through old e-mails I did write to friends and find myself enjoying the thoughts we had shared back then.

Its a good thing. Ther is a sentence in a country song I really like, describing the feeling: "Who needs pictures with a memory like mine/me?"


Generic Abilify said...

nice blog buddy!! thanks keep posting... well as time passes every thing changes but only memories are cherished...!!!!


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Shan said...

My blog has become a record, too. I often consult it when I'm not sure of a date.

But I want to tell you, you should get a camera and take pictures. My parents don't take pictures, either. I keep telling them I can't make their tearjerker funeral slideshows without any stinkin' photos!

More to the point, we will not have pictures of them when they are gone. Human life is ephemeral enough, even WITH a pictorial record.


Susan said...

Thanks for all the hard work, Dave. I read every post in the carnival - and now I'm thinking about all kinds of things and with some different perspectives as I go back to sleep...

Belly (Liz McLennan) said...

This is lovely, especially as I'm reading it on Valentine's Day.

The moments you remember, even if Joe can't, are the ones that truly matter in the life you share together.

I too, find that blogging is a journal of sorts. What began, for me, as a way to chronicle my new life as a wife and mother has become a place to muse and to muddle through. The best of who I am (and the worst)is there, in the posts that I send out into the universe. I hope that one day, my sons will read them and know how very much I love them and how they utterly changed my world, for the better.

Kinda like your Joe did yours.