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magicforest
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There are things about my own childhood that I have forgotten or that I don’t think I know, things which at that time I did know, things which I never wondered if I would remember in ten years simply because I didn’t realize that once something was in my brain it wasn’t safe from mental escapism, nor did I know which things would be important and which were not. I did not know back then that I could forget the name of my first dance teacher, and I did not know back then that it would be important to me now, these details, that I capture them and remember them, remember everything.
How much do I actually remember, and how many memories are simply me, telling myself that it happened? I remembered we used to play a game with the neighbour’s son called “Torture Timothy” in which we would force him to do awful things, such as blindfolding him and making him drink a cup of apple-cider vinegar. But if I were called upon to picture the event, his expression, the look of the room or the gleeful surrounding faces, could I? Or do I only remember enough to know that I did play that game? And if the case is the latter, how do I know if it is even real?
Why is it so important to me that my memories are real? Which is worse, to forget something that really happened, or to remember something that didn’t?
I know how to dance to the macarena. But how? Who taught me this? Did a friend teach me? Did I feel embarrassed that I was ignorant of the dance? Or did I learn with a pack of friends, casually, interrupted by laughter or silly variations? Did I see it on television?
When did I first learn the meaning of the word impotent? Did I learn it or simply assume it from context?
One of my old childhood journals that I found recently says on the front cover that it is dedicated to Stella. Who is Stella? For some reason I feel that Stella is a cat, but I never owned a cat or had a friend with a cat named Stella. Did I create Stella from my imagination? What if Stella wasn’t a cat? My sister had a stuffed animal stegosaurus named Stella, was that who Stella was? Why would I dedicate a journal to my sister’s pet?
I also have scenes in my head and I don’t know where they came from, but when something triggers the memory of one, I want desperately to be there. One common scene is a street, in the summer, filled with white building and porches and modern signs and lots of families and people. I think it may have been from Ontario Place, an amusement park, but was it? Why do I want to be there so badly? It’s usually seeing the same tone of light and a flash of white that triggers it, or the smell of hot dogs.
The smell of sawdust brings back the mansion we used to live in when my father was still part of our family. It was enormous and just built. I liked that smell. The kitchen was bright and airy and the main foyer…every time I walk into a building with a huge main foyer that is as tall as the height of house, I feel that nostalgia. But why can I only remember the feeling of standing in the foyer, and not the foyer itself?
There are things I can’t remember that continued up to only a few years ago. I once knew how to read Hebrew aloud. Now I remember a few letters vaguely but others escape me. Have I forgotten them or have I unlearnt them? Is there a difference?
My memory recently has been bothering me. I let my dog out and let her back in but could not remember letting her out.
Even more scary and disturbing are lapses from reality I am having.
I have always gotten this feeling, and I can’t describe it. I used to think it was arousal. But now, when I get this feeling, I let it coat me, and it is not arousal. It is similar in that it is involuntary, and it feels like an incredible need.
It wasn’t until a few days ago when I realized how it felt: it is the same sensation I get when I make one of my dreams lucid, so that I can control things in the dream setting.
Which would mean that this feeling is the need to either a) expose the supposedly real world as being a dream, or b) to behave like it’s a dream, even if it isn’t.
I am worried that the next time I get this feeling I will lose control of myself and my reality—whether it is real or not, the other people (assuming they are real) think it is real—and I will start doing whatever I would in a lucid dream. If I do so, and the world is actually real, I will be declared schizophrenic because I will not be able to bend others to my dream as I would in lucidity. If I don’t do what I would in a lucid dream, I may be wasting my time in a fake dream world when I could be enjoying the lucidity and doing whatever I want.
The feeling is sporadic; when it comes, is it just a temporary portal to a lucid realm, or is it nothing at all?
Right now, without the feeling, I know without explanation that my world is real. I am real, the sun setting outside my window is real, my dog is real, my childhood is real, the people I see and talk to, the things I spend my days doing, these are all real. I am living here, not in some gory stupid sci-fi book. I am certain.
It’s that damned feeling that brings on the doubt.
Does this sound crazy to you?
forgets
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031019
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