6 December 2012


My friend Berty told me the other day that he was losing his memory. He told me that he was forgetting things a lot. He is on a lot of meds is poor old Berty and they are affecting his memory. Berty has a wicked disease and he is in constant and often excruciating pain. American surgeons have chopped him up. They have fucked him over. 

The thought of losing my memories frightens me and I despise the fact that Berty is losing his.

I hate it.

We share a lot of them. Good times and great times. Berty is my best mate and he always will be. Memories are what warm you up from the inside. They light your fire but they can also rip you asunder. These imprints of our past are both angels and demons. 

I wish I had taken more photographs throughout my life. Images capture moments that have disappeared forever that can never be properly reproduced. They jolt memories – well they do for me anyway. I like looking at old photographs and I have been doing it a bit lately. I have been reminiscing. Nothing is ever truly lost to us if we in fact remember it.  

The brilliant Flannery O'Connor wrote:

“Where you come from is gone, where you thought you were going to never was there, and where you are is no good unless you can get away from it” . 

We can do this by remembering. 

Remember that one Berty - if nothing else.

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