Remembering and Forgetting

I am getting married in September. That's one angle of this whole thing.

So I figured, without thinking too hard about it, to somehow ORGANIZE my past. I know, it's ridiculous. I didn't really think about it, I just started doing it before I realized what I was doing.

My grandfather wrote amazing letters. I'm tempted to transcribe one here, but I can't make a decision on which one right yet - just too overwhelming. What I do know is that I took on compiling a book of my grandfather's letters for my mother as a thank you gift for hosting this wedding. And I've been swimming in the words of my family ever since.

Letters from my grandfather to my mother, his only child.
Letters from my father to my mother, before they were married.
Letters from my grandmother to other members of my family, but never to my mother, her only child. They didn't get along.

The lynchpin of the whole thing, the only surviving member of this vortex, is my mom. The rest are long dead. It is so strange to be reading these, flanking my day by reading one in the am, one in the pm. In some ways, it's a fantasy of the past, in others, a tangible reality - a piece of paper with thoughts written out, signed by the author. After all, you write letters when you're moved to communicate. It's getting all the inspired moments of someone and reading them at once, post-mortem. I wish my grandfather was back, but it's because I surface into reality every now and again. I feel like he IS here through reading all this. Every now and then I pop my head up from that world and check back into this one, remembering he's gone.

I'm still exploring, as there are more and more letters to read. I'm conscious of reading them only once, maybe parts twice. But it's much like a novel you don't want to end, but more. I'm walking slowly and quietly through this place, so as not to disturb anything. I want to stop and camp in certain sites before moving on or going home again. I feel like I'm with my grandfather, like he still lives with us, like he did when we were in high school. I didn't appreciate him then. Of course, I feel guilty about that.

A fact about my mom - she is about the least sentimental human being, a dyed-in-the-wool practical woman. So this leads me to the fact that I have to throw my body between her and anything I care to preserve. She won't explore a box of letters, a trunk full of old stuff. Paintings we had in the living room for years, suddenly without value. It brings up the question of value as well, as I've discussed with my friend Andy. His father is like my mother. Things that once meant so much, had SO much VALUE, so to speak, and are being sold at garage sales or plain thrown out. Brings up the question of what is value anyway? In observing my mother's and my very different styles (I save everything-) I've realized that we represent two kinds of people; those who don't want to forget (me), and those who either a) DO want to forget, or b) whose memories aren't dependent on tangible reminders of the past, or c) those who just don't care whether or not they forget. See, I need the letters to remember, to feel the vibe again, for transcendence to some other time in my life. Otherwise, I forget what seem to be important aspects of myself, of my past.

But, are they really important? If I don't remember them, do they matter? (A psychiatrist somewhere is having a field day with this one - like, YEAH. Ever heard of REPRESSION?) But I'm talking more the ilk of 'if a tree falls in the woods and no one is nearby, did it make a sound?' That kind of importance is debatable.

My mother probably wants to forget. Like Andy's father, she just moves forward from wherever she is, and moving forward is way more important than anything else. I don't know where I'm going with this post, except that this whole thing has become a whirlpool - and the whirlpool aspect gets put out of my head by writing about it. I guess now I can move forward.

I am still writing a letter a day. Sometimes to myself. I've written 3 now to myself. It's mostly when I can't stand to send anyone else my heart's wrestling-match-of-the-day. I also wrote a band I heard playing in Tompkins Square Park last Friday. The trumpet was soooo soooothing. They made me happy, so I returned the favor. I've received amazing letters in these past weeks - as well as books, postcards, gorgeous stationary and a magical pen. People are making me cry, actually. And I got word from my first person-on-board, Marta Lee. She started writing a letter a day two days ago, and started with one to herself that she'll open in 20 years. She's 16 now, so when she's my age, she'll be reading her younger self. How lovely... I hope she'll keep us posted.