Memory, Memoria,....

Memory, Mémoire, Memoria, Ký Ức, Gedächtnis

Ever since Nabokov published his nostalgia-laden memoir aptly titled, Speak, Memory, the phrase has become part of the English vernacular, at least among the educated and the informed, and it has lodged in my mind and has triggered an unspeakable desire to write, to speak of the past, of memories at once too painful and too bittersweet to keep to myself. Call me Ishmael, call me Stupid, call me Self-Indulgent, call me with whatever epithet your imagination and scorn may lead to, but above all, don't ever forget to call me also Memory, for I am a man of memories. All what I have written in my spare time, consciously and unconsciously, is a reaction against certain memories.

This afternoon as I was racing against the traffic to get to an appointment on time, a Spanish song came on the radio and boom, my mind was flooded with the memories of her. I don't love her anymore. Of course not.  She didn't deserve my love, but I couldn't help remembering the memories associated with her. My puppy love for her was short-lived (really?), but my memories about it are forever, in spite of my will, my conscious efforts to strike them from my mind. The memories have a life and a will of their own, even though my stupid love adventure with her took place almost fifty years ago. Yes, I was sorry that I loved her. But I have often wondered that without having loved her, I would not be who I am today. So, for that, I was grateful for the experience. After her, I have met many women, 22 so far, and only 3 really loved me. Out of the 3, 2 died unexpectedly. The surviving one cursess and swears at me, but I think she still loves me. I don't know for sure, though. But at least in general, I knew what True Love was. It is not the same as the bullshit one. True Love is selfless giving and caring and ever-ready forgiveness, time and time again. True Love is not constant harping and sniping. Nor is it about sarcastic, petty put-downs and stupid and glorified defense of Self. True Love is always about The Other. It is never about me, me, me, and me. Selfish animals and ugly kikes never know about True Love. They only know about animal lust and sex and survival at any price, against dignity and self-respect and pride. For them, Life is only about one thing: survival. Like a piece of vegetation or a dumb animal, they are completely ruled by an instinct for survival and self-protection. To live, for them, is to hang in there, as long as possible, no matter how dreary and meaningless and stupid their existence is. So they lie to and about others and to and about themselves. They don't respect facts, truths, and logic. They are brazen and shameless and devoid of self-respect. But yes, they have anger because they think they have pride  whereas the fact of the matter is that they don't really know what pride is even if pride bites them in the ass. Only true humans have pride. Human animals fucking do not. I know, I am sounding like Homicide Rising in a Moonless Night. It's not easy to co-exist with human animals. They always say or do something that staggers me for its sheer stupidity and self-deception. If not for my sense of humor, I would have fucking blast them out of this world a long time ago.