I can't remember the day I was born nor anything concerned with the delivery as my life as a foetus ended. The gap must have been fairly narrow as mam later often said that the delivery had taken over 24 hours, due to the astonishing fact that she didn't know how to do it. 24 hours of which I can't remember a single second, which is strange if you consider what a hell of a battle it must have been.
I can't remember the furniture, or even if it had furniture, that odd house north of Boston with a wooden grimace, similar to houses many of Hopper pictured, quite often in the pittoresque blank of a landscape with nothing else but grasses and pines and a liquid light on top of it. There it is, parked on the inside of a curve near the ocean, untouched as if really nothing happened ever since. I am able still to see the curve of a road, to notice a more or less infantile cliff and, if I turn my head the other side, the pines, and a similar house maybe, and with two ladies both a step behind stepping through that zone of shrub and brushwood near the ocean I am even able to see myself, unaware of the picture. Getting back to the wooden house, on the inside of the curve, memory fails. It fails as soon as I enter the house, where we sat, the three of us, and drank and ate and slept. Two ladies left asleep in the dark of a room without furniture. Say no more.
I can't remember when that foolish sucker got elected as president of, what's his name again. We played pool and drank beer and from hell angels came and turned on high heels. I so often fail to remember the date of common moments.
I can't remember how many weeks or months it took to finish MC0699. I often told that I finished the second of the perforated MC-catalogues during winter. Somewhere inside though a pencil note points summer 2001 and Kain walking along that boulevard.
I can't remember what I did, apart from sitting and doing nothing at all, during a flight from Seatlle to London, late 1978.
I can't remember the name of the Australian dancer, a smart and good-looking woman who sat next to me in an Italian restaurant downtown Edinburgh. It was August. Edinburgh had the festival. She invited me to her dance performance and later, for at least one year and a half, I had her name pinned to the wall in my working room. I went to the dance performance but unfortunately even don't remember what I saw and where it was. Apart from the spell it had. I do remember the table, where we sat, in a joint on the inside of a street curving steep to the upper part of town, she had her London manager with her and some of the crew she worked with. Turnfaced I notice males and females sitting in front of each other, all of the males one side, all of the females the other.
I can't remember how it went that day when Pepa and me drove to a joint near El Palo, it had a pool table on the beach, people sat around, Pepa used to have the chocolate in her handbag, we drank rhum and kissed and from the ocean came the sound of copulating turtles.
I can't remember what happened to the first essay I wrote. I can't remember why I wrote it. Apparently because I had to. Being a student at Art School I had to write something on art. It didn't matter too much. It must have been during 2nd bachelor. Sitting at the table in my small study I took a Playboy edition, opened it and started cutting it to small, rectangular pieces, page after page, using dices to direct the cutting up or down and to the left or to the right. I worked on a varying scheme of cuttings, reducing the nude pics to the abstract formula it had. The essay was less voluminous than it could have been. I can't remember the pages it had. I do remember that each page had a short note indicating the scheme I had used to reduce the nudes to an abstract mass of colour. I do remember that I handed it to one of the teachers, that day, and later never heard of it. No one asked why I had done the non-essay. No one confronted me with anything. Motive and object both disappeared, as if nothing had happened. Something had, and for some reason it acually did, and it did so as if nothing had happened.
I can't remember Nelson.