My day: I'll be saving that for myself but let's just say windshield wipers and M.I.A. and her war whoop that reminds me I am still young. I sing with her on the way to work: 20 dollarsthey shoot at you but that's how much they are...
there's soap in my eye...I hate the way my antenna...
and I drift in and out of the lyrics and at least once on 7 south there's some kind of a near hit and i imagine being slammed against the wheel, cheap metal crumpling into my lap and the airbag deploying, puncturing my breasts and crushing my sternum into my lungs.
There are other songs and other mixed CDs. Songs from summers ago, Blue Bird, Summer Breeze, Lost Inside of You. They remind me of the girl I am in the cable knit and Brooklyn Dodgers cap, say, 1976. At the lake, August, the fireplace working. The sound of mum and nan playing Scribbage in the other room; wooden dice with letters not dots being shaken in a cup.
Yesterday the line was from Delillo: he wanted desperately to be forgotten.
which is somehow related to the desperation of not wanting to forget, or the desperation to keep remembering.
I'm writing about Alzheimer's disease for the paper. what I want to express is my curiosity about memory, and is it some kind of sluicing cocktail that pulses through every time you remember. Is it a synaptic connection.
Or is it what Prince bleats--memories like tears, like grit
Every time I comb my hair/Thoughts of you get in my eyes
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