Remembering yesterday, last week, a month, a year, a decade. The monthly photo books are a form of remembering, and Flickr is a form of remembering. I'm working on the 2008 books now. And woven into these books of everyday life are more distant memories, sometimes with a written story, but usually a vague feeling about a time, a place or some people. I don't know why I remember. I have a memory of feelings, but it's a feeling-memory, not articulated through words.
I rarely remember my photographs, sometimes a photograph will come to mind. The photographs I've chosen are remembered when I see them again. A photograph stirs a memory, a feeling. That which was forgotten seems to become familiar again. A feeling about a feeling. What is this becoming familiar again about?
I wonder why we remember, what we choose through our lives to remember. And how we remember; a memento, a moment represented in a stick, or stone, little things that are kept for little reasons. I look around this room, some stones on the window ledge, some records over there, untouched for years, these books behind me, some looked through again, an old jumper or shirt in the cupboard, in a box, unworn for years. The boxes on the shelves, forgetting what is inside. These things have a presence and some sense of being in my life. I could open a box, I could pick out one thing and write some words to go alongside, but I rarely do. I've made the odd photograph of something I've kept and have written something to go with it. I could probably go back through Flickr and collect some of these photographs with stories together. From another time. Why remember yesterday?
Back through life, all those yesterdays, unremembered, why remember yesterday?
I'm writing this at home, some water drunk, muesli eaten. I had a restless nigh, tinnitus was loud, I had some scary dreams, I eventually got up, had some tea and a piece of toast, flipped through a load of movies on the BBC web site, bits and pieces seen and heard, hardly anything remembered.
And now, this everyday writing, just for an hour or so and then to get on with the day. The writings, seemingly of little consequence, are still there from yesterday and the day before, I could go back over time and re-read bits and pieces, maybe re-write from those bits and pieces, riffing off of my writings from another time, for another day, today. I remember when I was young I could not see any reason for writing. Now I tend to write without a reason. Writing seems a reasonable thing to do, and meaningful. What is this thing of writing?
I'm keying these letters into words, into sentences onto my iPhone screen, I'll stop soon, have some coffee with Jude, and begin the day in another way. And maybe later re-read the words that have been written in another way. This remembering.