Speak, Memory

Sarah Ansani
Feb 7, 2019
5 min read

So much interesting happening. And I'm going to just be blunt and not beat around the bush about anything.

Due to stress--or just a need to mellow out--I took double the dose of an anxiety medication on Tuesday. Nothing terrible happened, no worries. And it's not a high dose either. So, just be quiet. All you Mother Hens just relax. All it did was make me incredibly sleepy toward the end of the day. It was my long work day and I did all my jobs just fine, no worries. But something interesting did happen because of it.

In my medication-induced delirium, I began writing a story. I wrote several paragraphs. Typed them up on my laptop. I became too tired to continue, so I shut my laptop. I went to bed early for obvious reasons.

The next day, I reflect: I began writing a story yesterday!

But I had no idea what I wrote. I tried remembering. Something approximately two paragraphs long. Something with a female protagonist with ill intent. And there's a vegetable in there somewhere. Was it an eggplant?

I marveled at my lack of memory. Other than the usual lapses of memory, I have never experienced a conscious black-out like that before. But I remembered everything else going on around me. The TV was on and I was dutifully ignoring it typing up this mysterious story. I ate a soft pretzel. Brian wasn't feeling well. I can't help but be reminded of Vladimir Nabokov's memoir entitled Speak, Memory. I've never read it, but that title really resonates with how I was feeling about my experience. You hear horrible stories about terrible things happening to people when they're in such an un-remembering state or the terrible experience itself causing such memory lapses due to trauma. I felt like I was dealing with a different Sarah who knew a secret but wouldn't tell me.

I've been very occupied and busy and didn't get around to opening my laptop again to look at the story. Here is what I wrote, unedited:

Tucking her feet beneath the high stool, she took a look around the bar. All she wanted was a drink. Something strong, but spicy. Something that would lead a dark taste at the back of her tongue. The bartender approached and she finally asked for a Moscow Mule with extra lime. Within two minutes, there it at sat in front of her in the traditional copper cup, a red stirrer that she used as a straw. She drank it down fast, wishing that there were a hint of mint or cucumber or something else fresh. The lime was good, though. She didn’t want to make a scene of herself by pulling a book out of her purse to read. It was bad enough that she was a young woman sitting alone in a bar before 5pm.

You’re an ass hole, she whispered while staring at the carbonation bubbles rising in a beer belonging to a man she didn’t know farther down the bar. You’re an ass hole, she continued to whisper, trying to focus on any specific bubble as it rose to the top and disappeared. Excuse me? asked the bartender as he was wiping down the bar.

She couldn’t decide whether to be blunt and say she was talking to herself or to quickly throw the mother on the bar and leave.

Walking out of the bar, she is greeted with momentum and meander. All the footsteps, as far as she knew, had a destination. All the linear. All the lateral. All the movement possessed parts A and parts B. She couldn’t even mimick the gait of somewhere important or expectation. She walked the edge of the curve, quickly feeling the vodka render her mind supine and she peered ahead as if the city were just a disc of lights and she saw the light, her light so close. It’s so close.

7 city blocks later, she reached her light on the hovering Frisbee. The entrance door felt heavier than usual and the vodka was now supine in her blood, her feet. She greeted the flyers on the walls, the heat wafting from the floor vents, and the empty vending machine. She stood at the elevator, only staring at the buttons. She was in no mood for buttons and their decisiveness. She slowly turned around and entered the stairwell and its fluorescent world of up. The railing was black, sometimes brown, depending on the oils of peoples’ skin wearing away the color. She walked what she knew was seven stories but did not count. Muscle memory. Her apartment was unlocked but there was nothing terrible on the other side. Only the terrible woman who was about to enter and lock the door behind her. You’re an ass hole, she whispered as the entered the threshold of the apartment.

Haha, what?!!!! I mean, okay. It sounds like something I would write. There are obvious typos and weird words that were meant to be other words (lead instead of leave, mother instead of money, curve instead of curb). I mean, anxiety drugs aside, this is interesting, isn't it? ISN'T IT?!

I'm tickled that I used "Frisbee". I don't think I've ever used "Frisbee" in any creative work. The writing still follows my usual waltz. I write in threes. If I give examples or descriptions in my writings, I often do it in threes. For example: "She greeted the flyers on the walls, the heat wafting from the floor vents, and the empty vending machines." Also sentence fragments. I'm a queen of sentence fragments. I'm an AP English teacher's nightmare.

So, that was my Tuesday.

Yesterday, I hung out with my friend Maddie who I haven't seen since September when we ran a 10k trail run together. It was nice to shoot the breeze, catch up, and talk about future trail plans. I'm that terrible kind of friend that admits to your face that I almost bailed on you but decided to be a decent person because I never do things with humans. Maddie is the kind of friend who completely gets it and isn't offended and probably feels the same way. I'll admit, I rarely make plans with other people and those few times I do, I often hope that they want to cancel. Not all the time. I love the few friends I have very dearly. I don't care for small-talk but I have it mastered. People are exhausting, especially in these days of extreme butt-hurt, narcissism, and vanity. I prefer to be with my dogs and boyfriend. And even my boyfriend knows that I need to be alone and is totally cool with it. My dogs don't know that I need to be alone and I'm totally cool with it.

And nothing special happened today. I ran two miles in the dark rain, on sidewalks. I also rediscovered old photographs and received new ones. The memories were really speaking today. So, I guess something special did happen today. Enjoy. Be kind.