Thursday, January 12, 2012
Tragedy, I think, tends to whitewash the canvas of our memories, leaving only itself in its wake. The fun times I had in New York are hard to remember through the filter of September 11. My memories of a dear friend of mine from those days are discolored by the time I spent in earnest with him during his final days in the hospital. I promised myself I would write a remembrance of him, as so many did when he passed, but I was never sure what to write. Two years later, motivated by an excellent memorial penned by another good friend of his, despite the piles of studying awaiting me once I finish this post, I figured I should just sit down and recover what was lost before another year goes by.
(Continued)
Sunday, September 11, 2011
Some things you don’t forget.
“Did you have classes on September 11?”
“Yup.”
“When were you supposed to be in at school?”
“I wanted to be there at 12:00.”
“What day was September 11?”
“Tuesday.”
“Did they cancel classes?”
“Eventually.”
Some things you can’t remember.
I can’t remember if I tried to call any of my friends to see if they were okay.
I can’t remember if I tried to call anyone, for that matter.
I can’t remember who called me or tried to call me.
I can’t remember whether anyone who tried to call would have been able to reach me, anyway.
I can’t remember when I finally turned off the TV.
I can’t remember when they let us back below 14th Street.
I can’t remember when I finally let myself go below Houston Street.
Some things you wish were not even a dream.
Wednesday, December 29, 2010
During the fifteen minutes it took to make it through the Fullerton Ave. exit on Lake Shore Drive, I figured at least it wasn’t as bad as trying to make it through one of the Hudson crossings during rush hour.
Passing a carload of girls in a left lane immobilized by a few people ahead turning into the zoo parking lot (who knew that so many people were trying to go to the zoo?), one of whom was, I assume, desperately trying to get the attention of anyone in the right lane to let them in so they could get out, I thought to myself she’d do better by rolling down the window and sticking out her arm while the driver simultaneously merged right.
The trip down memory lane was complete when a brash cab driver used the flimsiest excuse of space in front of me to nose in, prompting a protest by horn sadly weakened by years of suburban driving.
(9/365)
On an expedition through the old neighborhood after Mass with Mom and Dad, I tried to resist going into Unabridged Bookstore, thinking of the books on my shelves that have sat, neglected; but I failed, driven perhaps by nostalgia for days past in New York spent browsing the many miles of books at The Strand.
Inside, the simple cover of No One Belongs Here More Than You beckoned me closer, testified to by a staff member’s positive, handwritten review posted on the shelf. The title, too, held a promise all its own, hinting that within its pages might be found a resolution to, or at least some brief sanctuary from, my own unshakable feeling of I Belong Somewhere Else: when I lived in New York; I belonged in Chicago; in Pittsburgh, I belonged in New York; and now, in Wisconsin, I belong… anywhere else.
Six years is a long time to be someplace you don’t belong. But–and I’m reminded of a performance of one-acts I did in college–everybody has to be someplace.
Thursday, January 28, 2010
[As I troll through my digital archives, piecing together memories of Scott for a brain that often fails to remember the more mundane details of life (it's those details that I think not only help provide context to what actually does matter, but also trigger memories that might be otherwise buried unreachable in my subconscious), I find things that I think are worth remembering. I hope no one minds me sharing them.]
If you asked me nowadays, I would tell you that, despite the tragedy of a certain day, I wouldn’t trade my college years in New York for anything. If nothing else, they clarified my love of the city (a term which, by the way, can only refer to one place) and left me with many fond memories–of people, places, and things, and a siren-like call to return.
(Continued)
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
So, slacker that I am (and in the end stage of studying for the MCAT, no less), I finally cleared out “Bender’s Game,” “Eureka” (season 1, disc 2), and “Prime Suspect 5” (part 2) from my to-watch list and shipped them back to Netflix. (I won’t admit how long I had one of those out for.)
Due up in my mailbox is a trip down memory lane: “Pi,” “Ghost Dog: The Way of the Samurai,” and “Sunrise.” “Pi” and “Ghost Dog” were some of the first movies I watched at the Angelika my freshman year of college, and “Sunrise” was one of the films we watched as part of the History of Cinema class I took my junior year. Collectively, they epitomize that phase of my life in which I aspired to be a pretentious snob^W^Wconnoisseur of the moving picture. (Which is not to say that I don’t anymore, only that it’s been tempered in recent years by…well, by no longer living in New York.) And there’s a keen sense of anticipation of rediscovering elements of some of the more visceral experiences that used to abound during my college years–not to mention the associated emotions that, to this day, color the reflection of my days as a New Yorker–but are now only faint memories to me.
All this will have to wait until after the MCAT. Less than three days to go.