Thang Nguyen 555

A lot of data are stored up in our little head. A fragment over here, over there, at times, co-join to form a tapestry, a patched up dream-like continuum.

Proust knows. We are our memories. So he tapped onto the undercurrent – his museum of memories – to re-surface and re-shape them in some fashion or form.

Voila. People spending their leisure time, the Swann’s way. Unlike the way we now live, mostly digitally.

I saw on the news today: people died more of covid in counties where mis-information used to prevail (npr news).

Such was the nature of the beast. You can’t have enough of good information.

And it’s up to us to curate and filter out bad actors. To let what’s in, and eventually, significant to us enough to take space in our museum of memories.

How do we build our filters? to remember or not to remember!.

To be or not to be.

What made us remember something, someone and some event more than others?

We don’t have to will ourselves to forget unwanted information and unpleasant conversation. It comes natural as survival mechanism.

Can’t be a doormat for people to walk right over. Or worse, can’t stand in the middle of Manhattan holding a sign “the end is near” for instance.

So we pick and choose. How we spend our time. What good book to read and good people to see (people are like books anyway). (as of this edit, daddy and daughter spent another 100 bucks at Book People. Who said Boat People remain forever on the boat or fresh of it! We read too, but first need to dry ourselves off).

My book, me, is in bold and large print. Easy to see. Easy to read. Easy to understand. With title and bylines.

With people saying a few words in the back cover, for you to overcome initial resistance, to flip through he pages.

It will have designer’s calligraphic fonts. It might even have pre-underlined passages to catch and keep your attention.

And most of all, it will differentiate itself (need to stand out since people – the ones I have come across – do judge the book by its cover).

My stories, my points don’t show great discoveries (not a scientific publication). Just a life illustrated by love and illuminated by loss, marinated by betrayal and matured by hardships. Most people chew on the pain of the past. I thrive on the pain of the present (soon become the past). Hence, the book subject has yet been reaching the end chapter. Still it is in its nth revision, perhaps online, machine-aided and printed.

So I move beyond today. To tomorrow yet looking over my shoulders: still fear of the advancing army, the approaching variant and the calling of debtors (social more than financial).

Life is funny. When you stop searching, it finds you.

I only remember certain flash-bulb moments, aided by black/white photos. Then I remember the songs and sound from my youth e.g. Band on the Run or Superstar. Finally, the taste of home cooking, of kindness and laughter. Those relatives are now ghosts. But they still exist in my heart, full of warmth and assurance from an extended family. Of one-level-away connection. Not online, but off. No pretension and randomness. Shared meals and memories.

I was privileged to some of those occasions when relatives gathered to remember our grandpa: the burning of incenses, the breaking of bread and of course, playing of a now-extinct card game. Like Proust, often, I am in search of time past. Each relative always said goodbye, but not left on empty stomach or empty-handed (just a little of something for the road.)

That road is still traveled by me. All the way to greener pastures. Don’t ever look back. Keep going. You need to cover for us all the miles we couldn’t ourselves imagine. So I keep going. looking forward, all the while, wanting so bad to turn around. To take one last look at that which has no rewind button. And while traveling the road, I make sure those memories are stored up in a locked compartment with coded password: I love you so much. Might be long a pw, but it’s so easy to remember and so close to my heart.

See my book is simple: it has a chapter on how I come about, people I grow up with, circumstances that drove me out of my home and how much I can salvage after the crash. Others might have a more elaborate and winding outline. But if you were to take a look, all you’ll remember is that boy had a lot going in such a short life. And you might feel more fortunate, or you might feel sorry for me. It might stir up and trigger some of your past blessings and your better choices. But one thing it won’t do: it will not bore you to tears and waste your time. I certainly wouldn’t want that on myself.

A la reserche du temps perdu. In the way she moves, something,…that attracts me like no other lovers. That madeleine and the table corner. Elegant and eternal. Yes, I remember now. She is a Gypsie woman, or perhaps a Boat People…I can’t recall, but certainly she moves around a lot, in search of a better life, like you and like I.