June 5, 1997
2:51 AM EST

Well I'm suffering from yet another bout of insomnia.

This one brought on by the fact that I got the in a series of 80's CD's that I ordered from Time-Life. This CD was from the year 1985, the year that I moved back to the USA and became reacquainted with mainstream American culture.

This also reminded me of things from Brussels right before we moved which led to a tightening spiral of remembrance that is all too familiar. I got lost in memory again, lying there in bed trying to calm my roving thoughts into something resembling slumber, I only managed to allow my brain to relax enough to wander from memory to memory, going back further and further until the images that flash before my eyes are only those of the vaguest and most instinctive type.

Do I really remember my mother feeding me in my high-chair? I suppose it's possible. I remembered the feeling of damp cloth under my chin -- my bib and what it felt like to have food spooned into my mouth and scraped off of my chin. I remember sleeping in my crib and tracing the line carved into the headboard. I remember a bunch of disjointed images that floated tantalizingly before my eyes, with no anchors to them so I have no idea what time-frame they come from -- a Cookie Monster Bean Bag game, a red plastic push along car with a black steering wheel .. I can feel the smooth plastic beneath my fingers and what it was like to turn the wheel and push it along ...tinker toys scattered across the floor and trying ot make all of the pieces fit. Desperately trying to get all of my Weeble-Wobbles to LIE DOWN in their beds so they can go to sleep ... watching anxiously from the window as the delivery-men brought my new bed to the house -- my first big-girl bed.

I don't know how accurate any of it is. The only memories I feel comfortable with as being genuine are from when I was about 2 1/2 years old, in Providence, R.I. anything before that is subject to the mom-told-me-about-that or in-the-photo-album rule: creating memories around the photographs rather than around actual impressions.

Memory is such a subjective thing, yet it defines us all in many profound ways. It links us to who we are ... in a sense every time I fall into this memory spiral, I'm re-connecting with the girl I used to be, I'm reaching out to her to find myself again, especially when going through times of trouble. That little girl had a lot going for her and I miss her gay spontaneity and fearlessness now that I am so hampered by all sorts of emotional baggage that comes from growing up.

The scariest part about memory is how easily it swamps my reality, even when I open my eyes, the images still dance before me, a sort of virtual reality that super-imposes itself on the actual world. It takes a physical effort to shake it off and remind m yself of where I am, instead of where I've been.

My father accuses me of not being able to let go. He's right, I have a terrible time letting go of things, because part of me is desperately afraid of losing even a drop of time, because I don't want to forget who I am.

So even though this clinginess sometimes hampers me and causes more pain, I'd rather keep my memories and those things which make me who I am.

This urge to remember is why I started putting things in The Memory Box Unfortunately the memories come back so thick and fast sometimes that it's hard to sort them all out and form them into a coherent narrative. This latest trip down memory lane seems to have generated a few more interesting images ... but I think I want to visit my folks and grab some photos from their album, to illustrate with before I write ...

Perhaps now that I've spewed all this out into a tangible format I'll be able to get those long-awaited zz's