Memories
As I type I am on the airplane headed towards Seattle, a town I have often visited. I do not have one of those memories which records memories with exact dates as do many people. Both in my personal and professional life I hear individuals mark events in their lives with very exact dates even, at times, including the day of the week and the time. My memory records events in terms of my sensory experiences; sounds, sometimes color, images and, most of all, emotions. Dates and names quickly slip out of my memory or never make it past short to medium term.
I must have last visited Seattle sometimes around 1986 after I was diagnosed with AIDS. I had come to visit my friend Ruth, a psychologist colleague who I had met when I came to work in Wheeling. I also saw her son, but not, I think, her daughter. On an earlier visit, I had met Gray and had subsequently frequently visited him. He had bought a little house sitting on a hill within easy walking distance of the locks. We had fun choosing paint colors and making other decisions which would make it feel as if it was our home. Yet, Gray remained fearful that his parents would find out about our relationship and be very upset. For that reason, he would also not visit me in Pittsburgh where I was then living. It did not seem as if we could maintain this home and relationship unless I was willing to keep the secret when meant foregoing all holidays together and being absent if Gray’s family visited. Sadly, I ended the relationship. We did, however, visit one last time on my last visit to Seattle. We met in a park. He invited me back to the house but I refused because I was fearful he would find out I was pretty symptomatic from the early experiments with AIDS medications. The doctors would not find a drug cocktail which would work until about 1996. I do not know whether he had already been diagnosed with AIDS at that time. I did later hear from his parents that he had died of complications of AIDS. They had taken care of him when he got too ill to take care of himself. His parents and I kept in touch until they got sick. First his dad died and eventually I no longer heard from his mom. It was ironic that we became friends after Gray died.
Since that last visit Ruth also died. Her son let me know. I cannot think of his name but I can picture him in my mind’s eye – this gentle, loving, blond haired, blue eyed man who took good care of her.
I have a strong sense of Ruth, her son, Gray, the water, “our little house”, his tender but strong embrace, quiet dinners, long walks, his very keen intellect, and embracing heart. I also have this sense of Ruth; a strong, independent, nurturing woman who enjoyed creating meals and, I think, quilts. She loved finely crafted china and her children. She had very strong opinions about how humans should take care of each other.
I remember the smell of the sea, Pike’s market, ferry rides, one of the first bookstore/coffee shops in the United States, hiking and Starbucks before it became a national phenomenon.
While on this visit to Seattle I will be with my son and his girlfriend which will evoke other memories and leave new ones. These will blend with my other emotional memories of Seattle. I will not remember names of restaurants, streets or other facts but my senses will create a new recording. Perhaps a new poem will visit. I know my dance of life will again be enriched as it is with every experience, especially when with my son.
Sometimes my memory is a painting which I could possibly dance but never paint. Sometimes it is a piece of music the notes of which I cannot record on staff paper (or type into a computer program).
Please don’t ask me for “facts” of dates, names, places. While I would gladly share those, they are not recorded in this brain. I do “know” how I felt; if it seemed I left happiness, sadness, disappointment, or hurt.
My facts will always be more of a Monet or even a de Kooning and not a Sargent or a Saturday Evening Post painting by Norman Rockwell.
People ask me about “facts” as they remember them I tell them I do not remember. If there is a memory it is contained in a box of emotions pieced together with sensory experiences. I will gladly share those if retrievable. Often, there may be nothing which my brain decided was worth logging. Your brain may record facts which are influenced by your emotions. My brain records emotions which are influenced by “facts”.
People often describe me in terms of the energy I infuse into the very air. I know that sometimes I am “too present” which is uncomfortable for some. For that I am sorry and, yet any attempt to be less present may be experienced as cold or distant. I seem to be missing a dimmer switch for my emotions or my emotional memories.
Written July 12, 2018
As I type I am on the airplane headed towards Seattle, a town I have often visited. I do not have one of those memories which records memories with exact dates as do many people. Both in my personal and professional life I hear individuals mark events in their lives with very exact dates even, at times, including the day of the week and the time. My memory records events in terms of my sensory experiences; sounds, sometimes color, images and, most of all, emotions. Dates and names quickly slip out of my memory or never make it past short to medium term.
I must have last visited Seattle sometimes around 1986 after I was diagnosed with AIDS. I had come to visit my friend Ruth, a psychologist colleague who I had met when I came to work in Wheeling. I also saw her son, but not, I think, her daughter. On an earlier visit, I had met Gray and had subsequently frequently visited him. He had bought a little house sitting on a hill within easy walking distance of the locks. We had fun choosing paint colors and making other decisions which would make it feel as if it was our home. Yet, Gray remained fearful that his parents would find out about our relationship and be very upset. For that reason, he would also not visit me in Pittsburgh where I was then living. It did not seem as if we could maintain this home and relationship unless I was willing to keep the secret when meant foregoing all holidays together and being absent if Gray’s family visited. Sadly, I ended the relationship. We did, however, visit one last time on my last visit to Seattle. We met in a park. He invited me back to the house but I refused because I was fearful he would find out I was pretty symptomatic from the early experiments with AIDS medications. The doctors would not find a drug cocktail which would work until about 1996. I do not know whether he had already been diagnosed with AIDS at that time. I did later hear from his parents that he had died of complications of AIDS. They had taken care of him when he got too ill to take care of himself. His parents and I kept in touch until they got sick. First his dad died and eventually I no longer heard from his mom. It was ironic that we became friends after Gray died.
Since that last visit Ruth also died. Her son let me know. I cannot think of his name but I can picture him in my mind’s eye – this gentle, loving, blond haired, blue eyed man who took good care of her.
I have a strong sense of Ruth, her son, Gray, the water, “our little house”, his tender but strong embrace, quiet dinners, long walks, his very keen intellect, and embracing heart. I also have this sense of Ruth; a strong, independent, nurturing woman who enjoyed creating meals and, I think, quilts. She loved finely crafted china and her children. She had very strong opinions about how humans should take care of each other.
I remember the smell of the sea, Pike’s market, ferry rides, one of the first bookstore/coffee shops in the United States, hiking and Starbucks before it became a national phenomenon.
While on this visit to Seattle I will be with my son and his girlfriend which will evoke other memories and leave new ones. These will blend with my other emotional memories of Seattle. I will not remember names of restaurants, streets or other facts but my senses will create a new recording. Perhaps a new poem will visit. I know my dance of life will again be enriched as it is with every experience, especially when with my son.
Sometimes my memory is a painting which I could possibly dance but never paint. Sometimes it is a piece of music the notes of which I cannot record on staff paper (or type into a computer program).
Please don’t ask me for “facts” of dates, names, places. While I would gladly share those, they are not recorded in this brain. I do “know” how I felt; if it seemed I left happiness, sadness, disappointment, or hurt.
My facts will always be more of a Monet or even a de Kooning and not a Sargent or a Saturday Evening Post painting by Norman Rockwell.
People ask me about “facts” as they remember them I tell them I do not remember. If there is a memory it is contained in a box of emotions pieced together with sensory experiences. I will gladly share those if retrievable. Often, there may be nothing which my brain decided was worth logging. Your brain may record facts which are influenced by your emotions. My brain records emotions which are influenced by “facts”.
People often describe me in terms of the energy I infuse into the very air. I know that sometimes I am “too present” which is uncomfortable for some. For that I am sorry and, yet any attempt to be less present may be experienced as cold or distant. I seem to be missing a dimmer switch for my emotions or my emotional memories.
Written July 12, 2018
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