I remember: Carmen Boullosa
Thinking of Joe Brainard's "I remember" [whose model was followed by Georges Perec and so many others], we asked Mexican writer Carmen Boullosa to share with us some of her memories. This is what she sent us.
I remember
Carmen Boullosa
I remember the time before I knew words. It was temperature that defined things. Lukewarm was my favorite.
I remember when I first understood words. What was lukewarm no longer interested me. My first word was “Mami” –my grandmother, my first love, my first wish-.
I remember my first genital pleasure. My grandmother was washing me under the lukewarm water of the sink faucet in the bathroom next to her room. The perfect tepidity of the water was replaced by something electric, something in which time was dissolved, something which was outside of me even though it began precisely in the most hidden part of my body. It was a perfect pleasure, free of anxiety. Held by the huge arms and hands of my grandmother, everything became light around me.
I didn’t tell anybody because I didn’t know how to express it or decipher it for myself. Had I spoken, I would not have been forgiven.
I remember that my grandmother wouldn’t have forgiven me.
I remember I felt that first pleasure outside my benefactor’s room, in a space shared by others. It was my secret, the hidden part of my body took shape in a public place, and I wasn’t sure that only I had “heard” it.
I remember I wanted my grandmother to be only mine.
I remember that all space outside my grandmother’s bed contained anxiety.
I remember a lightning bolt in the garden, landing precise, solid. I remember I couldn’t find an explanation for it under the dense foliage of the tree where I was, and that I was afraid. I remember that I thought it was something I’d call supernatural today, and that I didn’t tell anyone. I remember that I still believe that vision was supernatural, maybe divine or demonic.
I remember on the afternoon that solid light landed in the garden, I discovered solitude, no one shared the vision with me, no one knew of it, or knew of me watching it.
I remember being struck by thirst in the middle of the road, in a peaceful Michoacán. It was an unbearable thirst, a burning one. I remember I said “I’m thirsty” and my phrase had no effect. I remember the anxiety of that thirst, beyond words.
I remember my grandmother was not in the car.
I remember they spoke as if I wasn’t being consumed by the bonfire of my thirst, that it persevered, that my anxiety was greater and silent. I remember I didn’t cry: I let my thirst eat me inside, devastating me, without the help of tears; if it was thirst, it could not coexist with drops of water.
I remember a pool table in a house in the country, in the middle of nowhere. They said it was fragile. Imposing and artful, I remember it was surrounded by rules and prohibitions, was craved by all, and to me was just a useless old crock.
I remember that, in that same house, I was obsessed with finding the body of the grasshopper that sung at dusk, that I uselessly searched for its mouth or legs in the branches and leaves, without knowing if the thing that sung was big or small, without being able to imagine its shape, and that I never told anyone, so that I wouldn’t have to feel their contempt.
I remember my grandmother’s dentures resting in a glass at night, their naked gums, that they didn’t cause disgust or amazement; I remember the story of that dentist who would come to the cocoa-growing ranch to pull out teeth, as that was the only remedy against the pain.
I remember the visits to our fine dentist, the central patio of his house in Colonia Roma. I remember I never felt any pain there, and remember the envy I felt for the empty gums. The anxiety of the glass and of someone else’s dentures.
I remember the inside of my first boyfriend’s Mustang. I remember his snuggles, kisses, caresses. I remember our respective dissatisfaction. More asked for more. I loved him excitedly, he was excited, without knowing love, or maybe he loved someone else. I remember that he believed for a moment that he loved me.
I remember he didn’t forgive me for confessing to him I was in love with him. I remember that words took him away from me.
I remember that I also stopped loving him, but the excitement I learned to feel in his car never quieted down.
I remember the dog from my childhood home, its curly hair which called for a brush. I remember how sweet that dog was. I remember she understood words. I remember I felt compassion for her. I remember she didn’t feel anything for me in particular, and felt an unconditional and identical –but measured– affection for everyone.
I remember when I would write with a cup of coffee next to me. I remember when I started writing with a glass of wine, first white, then red, then two glasses, or three, or four. I remember that what coffee wakes up are slaves, that what white wine wakes up are dancers, and that what red wine wakes up are demons. I remember slaves with melancholy, dancers with contempt, and demons with horror.
I remember the first time I read Proust, as a teenager, and didn’t understand anything. I remember the first time I read him at 23, how my veneration for him grew and how much I didn’t know myself. I still have veneration and lack of knowledge for the same things.
I remember the first time I read poems in public, and thought that was the work of clowns, not poets. I remember that afterwards I began to enjoy reading out loud, and that I wanted, eagerly, to hear poets read, preferably without spectacle.
I remember that the first review of one of my books (by Huberto Batis) talked about peeling an onion –meaning contained in the whole, the impossibility of translating it–, and I remember the review while I thinly slice an onion in the kitchen, and cry while I destroy it. I remember once again the review while in front of the stew, and cry again, now out of joy and laughter.
I remember that I miss concrete events ever since I was a little girl, that I re-elaborate as I lose myself in my fantasies, and that what I recall is not what I remember.
I remember a chess set and my dad looking at me sarcastically since he knew I was making a poor move, while he said, enjoying my downfall:
“The piece you touch is the piece you move.”
I remember myself like a touched piece, a moved piece. I am the touched, moved piece, and I don’t look at myself sarcastically.
I remember getting on a truck that carried soda bottles, with my friend Hanna, both of us teenagers, to go beyond Tenancingo and keep on hitchhiking, and how much we laughed.
I remember the day they called me, years later, to tell me that they had murdered Hanna in El Salvador, and although I was happy in my homeland I knew that hearing the news killed a part of my being. Her burial was also mine.
I remember that decades after having seen (or hallucinated) that prodigious solid lightning bolt, I wrote a novel to talk about it.
I remember that once the novel was written (Before), the (arbitrary) bolt of (solid) light evaporated from my mind. I remember it had happened to me before with some poems in a collection, Ingobernable.
I remember the rage that erupted when I’d see my “I-remembers” evaporate as soon as they took on their independent literary form. I remember thinking that evoking memories and using them as the spark to light up the fire of a fiction turned my memory into scorched earth. I remember that it was through writing that I found out I was like the ancestral slash-and-burn of my own self. I remember I was right.
Other entries:
Sebastián Antezana
Martín Kohan
Sergio Chejfec
Margo Glantz
I remember
Carmen Boullosa
I remember the time before I knew words. It was temperature that defined things. Lukewarm was my favorite.
I remember when I first understood words. What was lukewarm no longer interested me. My first word was “Mami” –my grandmother, my first love, my first wish-.
I remember my first genital pleasure. My grandmother was washing me under the lukewarm water of the sink faucet in the bathroom next to her room. The perfect tepidity of the water was replaced by something electric, something in which time was dissolved, something which was outside of me even though it began precisely in the most hidden part of my body. It was a perfect pleasure, free of anxiety. Held by the huge arms and hands of my grandmother, everything became light around me.
I didn’t tell anybody because I didn’t know how to express it or decipher it for myself. Had I spoken, I would not have been forgiven.
I remember that my grandmother wouldn’t have forgiven me.
I remember I felt that first pleasure outside my benefactor’s room, in a space shared by others. It was my secret, the hidden part of my body took shape in a public place, and I wasn’t sure that only I had “heard” it.
I remember I wanted my grandmother to be only mine.
I remember that all space outside my grandmother’s bed contained anxiety.
I remember a lightning bolt in the garden, landing precise, solid. I remember I couldn’t find an explanation for it under the dense foliage of the tree where I was, and that I was afraid. I remember that I thought it was something I’d call supernatural today, and that I didn’t tell anyone. I remember that I still believe that vision was supernatural, maybe divine or demonic.
I remember on the afternoon that solid light landed in the garden, I discovered solitude, no one shared the vision with me, no one knew of it, or knew of me watching it.
I remember being struck by thirst in the middle of the road, in a peaceful Michoacán. It was an unbearable thirst, a burning one. I remember I said “I’m thirsty” and my phrase had no effect. I remember the anxiety of that thirst, beyond words.
I remember my grandmother was not in the car.
I remember they spoke as if I wasn’t being consumed by the bonfire of my thirst, that it persevered, that my anxiety was greater and silent. I remember I didn’t cry: I let my thirst eat me inside, devastating me, without the help of tears; if it was thirst, it could not coexist with drops of water.
I remember a pool table in a house in the country, in the middle of nowhere. They said it was fragile. Imposing and artful, I remember it was surrounded by rules and prohibitions, was craved by all, and to me was just a useless old crock.
I remember that, in that same house, I was obsessed with finding the body of the grasshopper that sung at dusk, that I uselessly searched for its mouth or legs in the branches and leaves, without knowing if the thing that sung was big or small, without being able to imagine its shape, and that I never told anyone, so that I wouldn’t have to feel their contempt.
I remember my grandmother’s dentures resting in a glass at night, their naked gums, that they didn’t cause disgust or amazement; I remember the story of that dentist who would come to the cocoa-growing ranch to pull out teeth, as that was the only remedy against the pain.
I remember the visits to our fine dentist, the central patio of his house in Colonia Roma. I remember I never felt any pain there, and remember the envy I felt for the empty gums. The anxiety of the glass and of someone else’s dentures.
I remember the inside of my first boyfriend’s Mustang. I remember his snuggles, kisses, caresses. I remember our respective dissatisfaction. More asked for more. I loved him excitedly, he was excited, without knowing love, or maybe he loved someone else. I remember that he believed for a moment that he loved me.
I remember he didn’t forgive me for confessing to him I was in love with him. I remember that words took him away from me.
I remember that I also stopped loving him, but the excitement I learned to feel in his car never quieted down.
I remember the dog from my childhood home, its curly hair which called for a brush. I remember how sweet that dog was. I remember she understood words. I remember I felt compassion for her. I remember she didn’t feel anything for me in particular, and felt an unconditional and identical –but measured– affection for everyone.
I remember when I would write with a cup of coffee next to me. I remember when I started writing with a glass of wine, first white, then red, then two glasses, or three, or four. I remember that what coffee wakes up are slaves, that what white wine wakes up are dancers, and that what red wine wakes up are demons. I remember slaves with melancholy, dancers with contempt, and demons with horror.
I remember the first time I read Proust, as a teenager, and didn’t understand anything. I remember the first time I read him at 23, how my veneration for him grew and how much I didn’t know myself. I still have veneration and lack of knowledge for the same things.
I remember the first time I read poems in public, and thought that was the work of clowns, not poets. I remember that afterwards I began to enjoy reading out loud, and that I wanted, eagerly, to hear poets read, preferably without spectacle.
I remember that the first review of one of my books (by Huberto Batis) talked about peeling an onion –meaning contained in the whole, the impossibility of translating it–, and I remember the review while I thinly slice an onion in the kitchen, and cry while I destroy it. I remember once again the review while in front of the stew, and cry again, now out of joy and laughter.
I remember that I miss concrete events ever since I was a little girl, that I re-elaborate as I lose myself in my fantasies, and that what I recall is not what I remember.
I remember a chess set and my dad looking at me sarcastically since he knew I was making a poor move, while he said, enjoying my downfall:
“The piece you touch is the piece you move.”
I remember myself like a touched piece, a moved piece. I am the touched, moved piece, and I don’t look at myself sarcastically.
I remember getting on a truck that carried soda bottles, with my friend Hanna, both of us teenagers, to go beyond Tenancingo and keep on hitchhiking, and how much we laughed.
I remember the day they called me, years later, to tell me that they had murdered Hanna in El Salvador, and although I was happy in my homeland I knew that hearing the news killed a part of my being. Her burial was also mine.
I remember that decades after having seen (or hallucinated) that prodigious solid lightning bolt, I wrote a novel to talk about it.
I remember that once the novel was written (Before), the (arbitrary) bolt of (solid) light evaporated from my mind. I remember it had happened to me before with some poems in a collection, Ingobernable.
I remember the rage that erupted when I’d see my “I-remembers” evaporate as soon as they took on their independent literary form. I remember thinking that evoking memories and using them as the spark to light up the fire of a fiction turned my memory into scorched earth. I remember that it was through writing that I found out I was like the ancestral slash-and-burn of my own self. I remember I was right.
Other entries:
Sebastián Antezana
Martín Kohan
Sergio Chejfec
Margo Glantz
