Memorabilia. Not big on it. I like postcards.
Memoir. When I’m the last one alive, maybe.
Memories. Okay, but only the good ones.
Oh, hey, I have a really good memory. I know it’s hard to believe if you’ve recently read of my search for the yellow house, or how my time in Georgia is a blur, or how I forgot the tv was on the curb, but it’s true: I have a really good memory which serves myself and others around me well.
The Mister says I am his memory.
But then, he knew the television incident happened in the summer of 2008, which was R&R.
Some of it’s just paying attention, some of it’s obsessing, and some of it is because I see things as words. When people talk, I see their words in my head like they’re rolling off a typewriter, which is why I love to read subtitles in films and why I get pissed off about bad translations, and why, no matter how much you want me to, I will never forget what you said. Brain cut, copies, and pastes moments to appropriate headers.
My brain is highly effective at storing written words. I like that about me. I can caption events to remember them better.
It doesn’t prevent me from forgetting I left the kettle on or remembering where I put a particular piece of paper, and it certainly doesn’t keep me from asking myself if I have my keys 25 times a day, but it’s still a nifty gift.