metanoia's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- I care more Another way I�m funny. I care more than other people do. I notice more than other people do, or rather I notice different things than others do. I find significance where others find insignificance. (Does one find insignificance? Because if it is really insignificant, would one notice it enough to find it? Just wondering�) Case in point. My niece was visiting me in 1974. She was a teenager, probably around 13 or 14 years old. I was driving a Porsche at the time and she loved to ride around with me and check out guys� She liked to unlock the car, and act like she was going to be the one driving it and so this one time I gave her the keys and she ran out to the car to unlock it. We were about 30 miles from home at some mall or something. She runs out and then just stands there, instead of opening the door�. As I walked up, I saw that her face was very pale and clammy, and she looked like she was going to throw up. I said, �What�s up?� and she just pointed to the keyhole in the car door where the key had broken off in the lock. Oh, fuckity, fuck, fuck, I more than likely said, or something along those lines. It was a horrendous ordeal, calling a locksmith waiting, waiting, waiting in LA and waiting some more, until they could come and open the door and make me a key and we could be on our merry way in the midst of (by that time) rush hour traffic on the 405. Oh shit, oh dear it was bad. She was traumatized. I saved that key, or, rather part of it. I kept it in my jewelry box for years, and when I would see it I would smile and remember that horrible day, but the pain of it had long since diminished. It became but a memory of a time when disaster struck, but in the softening haze of time had become something to make me smile. A trauma shared becomes a memory to share with a laugh or two, �Remember the time you broke the key in the lock�.?� And so, it was with this thought I brought that key out once, during a visit from my niece not too many years ago. �Look what I have!�, I said expecting a smile or some type of recognition. �What is it?� she asked. �It�s the key!�, I exclaimed as I looked at her expectantly. �What key?� she asked. �The Porsche key!�, I again exclaimed and looked at her even more expectantly. �I didn�t think you still had the Porsche� she said. At this point, my enthusiasm was on the wane, in fact, I was getting a little hurt and pissed. It was becoming obvious, even to old stupid me, that she did not remember the key. After a few more back and forth, �the key, the key!� from me and �what key, what key� from her, I said �The key, you know, from when you broke it in the lock and we had to wait and wait and I was pregnant and, and, oh fuck it never mind.� �I don�t ever remember doing that?� she said, puzzled and a little bored. sigh. I have a million of these. �Remember this?� �No� �Yeah. Remember, you gave it to me for mothers day when you were 10 years old. Remember?� �No�. My karate jacket, do you still have it? No I gave it to Goodwill. The girl I went to play with when I was 7, and then saw her on the playground 2 years later. She didn�t remember me, but I remembered her. But, I saved a high school letterman jacket I friend gave me to keep me warm one night in 1969. He moved away, but I kept that jacket and moved it along with me from place to place and one day in 1987 I bumped into an old friend and we began talking about old times and mentioned his name. I asked where he was and she said Oregon and I got his address and mailed that jacket to him. He was so surprised and thrilled. And I felt great because the jacket was finally with its owner. BECAUSE I CARE. At least I like to think its because I care. Maybe its because I have some strange mental condition�. Maybe I�m insane. But, I digress. Yes, I do. But that other bitch whose party I went to wearing my karate jacket (it was a fashion statement! I�m original!) but left it there and then called her about a year later to see if she had it, the bitch gave it to Goodwill. Dammit! ad in-fucking-nitim. So, I care more or notice more or remember more. I�m beginning to throw these things away now, though. Because when I die nobody will remember them. Hell, nobody remembers them now! I am cluttered with unshared memories. Oh, I give them a decent burial. As I toss them I hold on to that memory, briefly, perhaps one last time. These little memory triggers, these mementos, they are gone. I�m ridding myself of them. Not the memories, just the --- mementos. One woman�s memento is another woman�s clutter, I suppose. I still care more than most people, though. Surely there is some award for that or a gold star or something. 10:46 a.m. - 2005-04-05 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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