slow recall

RECALL IS SLOWER THAN IT USED TO BE

 

My Cousin Schloimie

And my Faithful Kitty

And other Random Thoughts…

 

By Izzy Ess of Forgetfulness

 

 

I don’t recall as quickly as I did when I was 17 and could write some almost perfect papers for my entry into Medicine at the Faculty of Medicine in the University of Toronto.  However, it has struck me lately, that recall is just as good if I but wait it out.  Often I awake at 2:00 am, or earlier, and what I tried to remember the last day, comes roaring in.  Also, as I write some poetry or prose, the triviality, of which I am so proud, is at my typing fingertips, as if the emotional associations make it possible to give me almost perfect recall of the millions of facts that I have stowed away.  Of course, I never really check for accuracy so that my own recall may be false, in some or every detail.  I used to visualize my brain as one big piece of bubble gum where facts just stick there for eternity.

 

Even quite recently that one big fact that I recalled was truly true and not confabulation as my “perfect” kin would often say.  The “fact” was labelled as another name and not one of my kin would speculate the obvious to re-assure me that it wasn’t complete confabulation on my part.  At that time in 1992, my shrink had warned me that they may be lying, but how could I not believe the three closest kin I had, my sister, brother-in-law and my father.  Only this year, 2013 did my brother-in-law admit there was some truth to the story I used to change my religious philosophy about a Christian God who watches every sparrow fall, or a Jewish God that reputedly knew everything, saw everything, was very potent and was ever present and ever so generous and beneficial to Mankind.  I had indeed mixed up my gods and missed the name of a first cousin who had died in pain and blueness, succumbing to a defective heart which at that time could not be repaired.  My age had been about the same as my first cousin’s when he died in pain, not being able to draw a life-giving  breath of oxygen.  My brother-in-law did not and could not recall what his name actually was.  It could have been Izzy, for all I know.  I certainly wasn’t about to call my living first cousin, the much longer living, highly successful sister of this harmless child who died in excruciating distress, way before his time.

 

Recall being slower than before, I don’t do really badly for a man who is a full 75.5 years of age and still kicking and loving life.  I revel in my creative moods and modes and still enjoy the jokes that I have heard since I was five.  Go figure…

 

THE END

 

I’m pretty sure of the date.  The time is quarter of three.  I just let out my sweetly demanding kitty who watches everything I do to see if there’s a way to get outside and do some hunting of insects and perhaps small birds.  Two weeks ago, she found a slightly open window and flew down three stories, landing on her paws, I’m told, shaking her head a bit and then running to hide in my neighbour’s yard until I returned that evening.  She objected very loudly to my having let her stay outside so long away from all her food and litter box.  The open window has been rectified to stop her from her daring flights.  Otherwise she is relatively obedient and likes to lie asleep within my reach and near the radio which radiates some heat and classical music and good jazz, 24/7.

 

© izzy sommers, md

Welland, Canada

September 4, 2013