new york city and the art of losing

i recently read of a man who tried to write down every memory he'd ever had, so he wouldn't forget anything. it may have sounded foolish, but i know i think the same way - late at night, all these memories come back to me with foggy details, in shades of gray, shaky transitions with muffled voices. these fleeting things that have been all-but forgotten. i know there isn't a real necessity for this kind of documentation and it can even get unhealthy - all the pinning for and recounting the past can result in losing the present in the process. (it's all subjective anyway). but i also know that i am the master of forgetfulness. it's a thread that doesn't seem to fit with the rest of the fabric of my being, but it is there nonetheless. i let everything go.

i read this (above entry) poem years ago, and i thought it was breathtaking. the progression of things lost, from the material to the cities, the continents, to the last stanza, the braggart-fashion in which it's written, like she's giving advice on this great art, the way she forced herself to (Write it!) - you can almost hear the pause, hear her talking herself into it. only now do i feel the personal significance. the places i've been, the people i've loved, the way i never keep in touch because it's just easier (selfishly) not to. the flippant way i let things go, without a second glance.

...

a memory came to me out of the blue today. i don't want to lose this one:

my father and me, hopping trains in new york city, summer of 1998. the metallic blue bouncing from surface to surface in the early sunrise. the sweltering heat barely beginning to wave above the concrete.
me - 15 and defiant, hair chopped hideously short in panicky rebellion, in love for the first time, angry at my parents, angry at the world for not understanding. and he didn't understand - my poor dad, least of all. raised in a close-minded family of all boys, he was the only one that escaped, good-natured to his core and full of springy energy and enthusiasm. but understandably at a loss when it came to the job of raising 3 girls.
he was adamant that we seize the day - this being our last in new york, and he wanted to see time square, wanted to grab an authentic new york coffee and bagel, before the crowds materialized and killed the solidarity. he was so confident and carefree, so pleased to know how to maneuver through the subway stations and map our way downtown.

i glowered through the whole experience. i barely said a word. i was exhausted, i was not looking forward to going back home, and i was not (will never be) a morning person. what sour company i must have been - there is even an old photograph taken on a disposable camera (seems so archaic already) of me, slouched against a streetlight, unable to muster a smile as time square is bleached in the white light of early morning behind me.

we got the obligatory coffee and a bagel. dad had a real knack for finding the perfect place for that sort of thing, and it was a true new york dive, with thick accents and loud voices and regulars. we ate and drank and said very little. i remember he was fed up with me by the end of the morning, no doubt thinking what a defeated attempt this had been at father-daughter bonding time. i guess what he should know now is that i really treasure this memory. even in my shutdown, hormonal state, somewhere inside of me was a little girl who wanted nothing more than to spend the day with her dad.