PHOTOGRAPHIC MEMORIEIIS

Now. I’m an instant photograph. I’m an undeveloped Polaroid, seeking light to provoke my emulsion. Layers of amnesia. Retrograde. Anterograde. Layers of pieces of myself, diffusing into the painstakingly, slowly developing images. Pieces of whoever I am. Whoever I was. I’m not (not really) an amnesiac. I, Michelle Kathleen O’Kane, etc., etc., etc., am a Time Traveler. An object.

An object in time travels if and only if the difference between its departure and arrival times as measured in the surrounding world does not equal the duration of the journey undergone by the object. This place. The soft grey shawl is on my bed, and my knitting project is on my bed. The book on my nightstand is The Echo of Old Books. My notebook, whose pinkish pages wait patiently for the next bit of words that I’m sure to emote before incessantly conversing about me. About myself. Every thing that used to be my life.

My existence used to encompass the world of seeing new places on other continents. And writing romance novels while I still believed in romance and excitement and love.

Memories of sharing meals with people I loved. Mimosas at brunch. Cosmopolitans before dinner. Vintage chardonnay with dinner. I wake up while driving in various cars, and I’m always the driver. Frequently, I’m 280, approaching the 92 exchange. Aware. While I’m driving, I surround myself with the color-changing hills. I’m humming along with Elvis Costello. Every day I write the book.

Now — I’m pointed west, driving to Half Moon Bay. I’m in various makes of cars, all of which I owned. Today I’m driving a clutch — my blue Ford Ranger. This is the car I purchased with money I inherited after my mother died. I am now 18, and she died just a few months ago.

I drive past memories. The Half Moon Bay Nursery, on the north side of 92. Then I’m just starting to drive through the outskirts of Half Moon Bay. My town. My ocean, sea salt, and blue sky and sea, white wavy clouds tying the sun and sea together. I’ve finally realized and understood how crazy I am.

I haven’t watched a movie with another person in over 5 years. I haven’t laughed with someone in as many years. A few times, something I’m watching or hearing has caused the sound — the sharp chirp of a laugh. My laugh. The noise scares me. Hearing my own laugh is such an unfamiliar sound that it shocks me.

Time is on my side, and so am I. Gravity is giving me a gentle push to roll across the green grass. Damp grass leaves keep me alert. Behind me is the 5’4” wide trail I’ve left while rolling down this hill.

I’m jealous of many of the things I see on TV. And Instagram. Landscapes and cities and people at tables with white espresso cups.“You don’t look back along time but down through it, like water. Sometimes this comes to the surface, sometimes that, sometimes nothing.

“Nothing goes away.” —Margaret Atwood

Michelle