whose memories?

are the memories i have mine, or do they belong to someone else?

i think about that a lot.

like yesterday i was driving through hollywood and i saw an apartment building that we considered moving into. i could remember the interior, and i could remember the balcony, and the sound of traffic, and the smell of new paint and new carpet, and several other details with which i won't bore you.

but as i thought about it, i couldn't remember if i'd really been to the place that was so clearly a part of my memory, or if it's a memory of something liz once told me.

and she's not here to confirm whether or not i was there with her.

but it doesn't really matter. the memories that belonged to her are now mine, and whether or not i actually experienced all of them, well, i see it as my duty to remember them as best i can.

it's part of my way of keeping her around for madeline.

then this:

a few minutes after passing that apartment building, i was stopped at a stoplight and found myself listening to (and for the first time ever really, really hearing) a few lines of a song called, "the country diary of a subway conductor" written by a guy named david berman for his band, the silver jews.

the lines?

"imagining places i was almost sure i'd never been & had taken to assuming were the memories of my grandfather somehow deposited in my mind. they were there and gone."

i hear things like this and think i should just quit writing because everything i think has been thought before, and in a much more eloquent way.

i don't even know if any of this makes sense to anyone but me.

but if you're confused by what i wrote, read what david berman wrote.

that's exactly what i'm trying to say.


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