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Forgetting is creation without the mens rea.

“Graham Greene once said, and I’m paraphrasing because I can’t remember the quote, that all good novelists have bad memories. He says what you remember comes out as journalism. What you forget goes into the compost of the imaginations. And that compost heap is the same as the dream space or the unconscious.”

– Robert Olen Butler

Stolen from here

Forgetting about forgetting.

Guess that means you can look for my forthcoming novel about birthdays and famous people (in which each character will be named twice).

Yeah, I forget things. Things that make people think I don’t care about them. The simplest of things. I forget names. Dates. Job titles. Projects people have worked on.

They say it’s no big deal but that’s what they have to say because the other option is, “You’re an asshole.”  And most people don’t have the stomach for that.

In truth,  my memory has been lethal to social relations of all kinds.

So why am I this way even though I hate it?

Take your pick:

1) Self-absorbed narcissist prick.

2) I remember that, when you were very young, your grandmother got sick.

And every night you would kneel beside your bed, elbow deep in down.

And you would pray – wander up to the gates of some imaginary heaven in footie pajamas to beg for one more day.

And you would kiss your teddy bear (because we all need back up) and you would sleep.

And your plan worked – you kept your grandmother alive.

Until one night you forgot to pray, forgot the kiss.

And that was the night your grandmother died.

I remember that…  But sometimes I can’t remember if you spell your name with an “I” or an “E”.

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