Tag Archives: personal history

Memory Release

Image source: thatssuperfood.com

I know I’ve lost a lot with age.  Particularly my memory.  And I’m always tired.  So today, I tried to access my past, and came a rush of colors and images.  Seems I’ve shed and blocked so much.  Technology has that way of distracting you from the real world.  But not without consent, right?  A life so empty and boring—you’d choose entertainment…right?

Image source: labelscar.com

Beyond the science-oriented classes in high school, I recall walking in the Maine Mall.  Some of the smells come back, though incomplete.  I remember stores that came and went, including a computer repair shop, and even some holiday decorations (or at least the fact of holiday decorations).  I remember an escalator I never took (probably).

I have very little interest in gas-stop items.  But I remember a candy bar not sold anywhere else—like a “Saturn” bar, or something.  And before that, a candy sucker, as a kid.  Just the other day, I find the Punky’s in Portland, where a great salad was bought a few times, had closed (according to Urbanspoon.com it’s supposed to be open today, go figure).

Image source: startupover.com

Becoming that kid doesn’t much apply himself, I had a few teaching assistants.
I remember a Blockbuster that went out of business.  Before that, another rental store, in association with the memory of TA Ms. Pinkman.  I don’t remember what she looked like or even her first name.  Yeah, I’m bad with names.  Sometimes, special attribution is paid to things you can hardly remember in whole later on in life.

Having an interest in electronics, I remember one time I saw the ending of a movie on HBO, one with a credits sequence that features overheating components.  I tried to find this film in the HBO catalog and then at that non-Blockbuster rental, but reached a dead-end.  This search must have taken place before middle school, given the timing of events.

Image source: flickr/Ian Ligget
Image source: flickr/Ian Ligget

I remember enough to know a lot hasn’t changed in the past twenty years.  Technology, business, trends, fashions and music—hell, traffic lights, have adapted, but geologically speaking, I can’t measure much/any difference.  The Earth may be ‘alive,’ but it’s…so calm in these parts of Maine.  Besides weather and business as usual, what has really changed here?

So many things in life lie to you, and tell you to remain ignorant.  Until you find yourself older, probably alone, missing it all.  High school sucks for everyone, but the potential was there, photography was there, vocational education was there, surfing-the-internet-without-proxy-at-the-vocational-school-while-forgetting-to-hand-in-your-work was there.  People were there.

Where is everyone now?  Letting go has that consequence of starting over so dramatically when you’ve been out of touch IRL for thirteen whole years…

Friday Fictioneers: Remember, Reconnect (2015.01.30)

Thanks to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for the prompt, and Ted Strutz for the photo.

This is not my best work, I admit.  But I do have a past.  I am human. …Stop looking at me like that…

“Remember, Reconnect”
Memoir
99 words
——————————

on-on-off
Copyright — Ted Strutz

My father, I barely knew.  He’d divorced and remarried before my first memories had formed.  But I remember that one time we visited a small seasonal dwelling.

The place had no power.  A generator was used for pumping water, in case anyone used the bathroom.  The place did, oddly have electrical outlets despite being disconnected from the world.  I don’t remember sleeping there.

I fell out of contact with Dad some years ago.  Part of aging in “nowheresville.”  Electronic outlets and emotional switches, I miss life.  I want to remember.  I want to reconnect.  But do I miss him?

——————————

All participation is welcome.  The goal is to write a three-part story in 100 words or less.  You’re also encouraged to “think outside of the box.”

Click here to view the inLinkz for what others have written for the prompt, or add one.

Visit Rochelle’s Addicted to Purple for her own take(s) and her Friday Fictioneers page for more details.  You can follow her blog for the prompt each Wednesday.

I don’t want to die alone.  There, I said it.

Finally.  And it only took several days of drafts for other things that eventually got scrapped to reach this point.

Yeah, yeah— I know most people would say they don’t want to die alone either.

…Should I say more?

It’s been over a year since I kicked off a larger presence, and… emotionally “cratered” over how I saw myself, and faced a near-black hole of aloneness.

Continue reading I don’t want to die alone.  There, I said it.

Forgetting, Forgotten

As my right hand is busy doing “paperwork,” I might as well type with my left this post.  I’m a multitasker.  And an idiot.  Too bad I can’t Alt-0146 those curly quotes.

Anyway, this is a story of how I may be getting dementia.  Either from the sleep-deprivation or…something—I’m currently forgoing (back to) sleep typing this because of how long it takes me to write; I’m an actual Slow-Man (not to be confused with Slo-Man, who wrote a pretty funny post in May)…

I’ll take you back, all the way back—way, way back to when you were in diapers.  It was 2010, and the standard kerosene heater was no longer working.  It would be an expensive job, getting parts for a model no longer sold.  And so, the thing wouldn’t be effectively fixed.  It didn’t used to plume out a big puff of smoke into the living room, but at this point it did.  Over $1,300 to get it working again?  And I would have to hold my breath, or go to another room or the window?

Your traditional electric heater—or, a couple of them would replace the K1 heater.  Well, actually, there are two K1 heaters—the other one purchased during a black-out, and hadn’t worked at all in the house, only posing a forever-fire hazard and smell of kerosene in the house, just sitting there…the electric K1 heater is the one out of service.

Continue reading Forgetting, Forgotten

Why Impoverished Observers Have Exceptional Difficulty Contributing

Why I Haven’t Been a Good Contributor, Period.

Honesty has its virtues, but…you’re probably not going to like this. But before I start, I want to say that the last post was humiliating.  But necessary. My standards are above me.  I’d be glad to invite someone else here.

As the saying goes: in life, alter the world the least.  Or something like that.

But I’m a “rebel.”  And I pay the price for pointing out to the other children that the “9 with a line over it” is a freakin’ underlined-‘6’ — rotate the card!  But the boy in front of me refused to see that.  It could of been the other way around.

I was five.  Add stature disparities and accidentally walking into an occupied bathroom. It was the time when my “super-conscious” anxiety started.

Continue reading Why Impoverished Observers Have Exceptional Difficulty Contributing

Waste—High

Stacks—
on tables, on shelves, and on floors,
of books, and mags, and of papers;
recent or new, aged ten or more—piles, they become less safer.
These papers are used, less ‘reading,’ more ‘leaks’
of ceilings and sinks, piled paper for weeks.
And each week a new mag—and bags, many balled,
and stored in bags, within bags, and thusly marked for:
clothes, materials, and “saved” on a chair,
in more bags, always slide right onto the floor.
Continue reading Waste—High

Thursday: Really, Really Long Walk on the Beach

More pain, more numbness in the left side of the face.
After dreams forgotten, mundane/unreal, I sprang for plans.
The Kashi® biscuits, of course without milk.
The changing of clothes.

More sitting in the car.
New symptoms disclosed, yet what’s addressed before made it.
The new issues, in a “laundry list,” would be forgotten.
After more deadlocking and useless appointments, I had it.
Continue reading Thursday: Really, Really Long Walk on the Beach

Wonders of the Mind: Oliver Sachs in the New Yorker (2012.08.27)

It did not seem at all strange to me that a spider should say hello…

Oliver Sachs gives an in-depth history of a wilder side of his career, the side where he took a host of drugs.  In 1953, he crossed that threshold of staying objective through only reading about substance-induced experiences to objectively tripping on his own, writing about his psychedelic journeys and mentally-generated battle scene reenactments, with such scenes as to include his beloved indigo, fighting other colors.  And after taking too little one time, he often took way too much thereafter.  For the most part, the drugs he took then are either illegal or mixed with pesticides today. Continue reading Wonders of the Mind: Oliver Sachs in the New Yorker (2012.08.27)