The Memory Artists - Jeffrey Moore [100]
Haven’t seen Samira in a while either.
20:02, 20/02, 2002. The palindromic moment has just passed, without fanfare. Everyone, including JJ, seems to have forgotten about it. And about a second meeting.
February 21. Mom was wandering at night again, with her trusty lamp, so JJ prepared something new for her: a maple sugar base with extracts of pennyroyal and rock mint, combined in a decoction of California poppy, Jamaican dogwood and Madagascan periwinkle.
What’s strange is that Mom takes whatever medicine JJ and I give her, unquestioningly, like a trusting child. I can only pray her trust is well placed …
February 24. There are starting to be extraordinary variations in my mother’s memory abilities. I’ll have to share the information with Dr. Vorta, see what he thinks.
February 26. No matinée today. Couldn’t reach Norval all week. He may be out of town. With Samira?
March 1. JJ’s memory for jokes seems near-infinite. So much lightness, so much laughter inside his brain—it must be what makes him so … the opposite of world-weary. Must ask Dr. Vorta about this.
At breakfast, between mouthfuls of Lucky Charms, he reeled off this one: “So I’m talking to this friend of mine and he goes, ‘Yup, I’m colour-blind to one colour.’ So I ask him what colour he’s blind to, and he goes, ‘I don’t know, I haven’t seen it yet.’”
None of his jokes, I grant, are particularly funny (except in their unfunniness or delivery), and this one is no exception. But for some reason, after laughing politely this morning, I’ve been thinking about it all day. Perhaps because it points to a main difference, or divide, between science and art. Our “rational” side sees the humour of the punchline because it’s self-contradictory, absurd, at variance with common sense. Our “artistic” side, however, sees a vein of truth within it—regarding imaginary fears or invisible barriers—because paradox is the currency of poetry. But science has room for paradox as well, as Einstein will tell you. “Don’t be in thrall of reason,” my father once said, “or you’ll never invent anything, never be a great scientist. The pursuit of sanity can be a form of madness too, don’t forget.”
More later. Mom’s calling …
March 3. Something incredible just happened. Still not sure if I dreamt it. Samira Darwish arrived! Here at the house, well after midnight, out of the blue. The incredible part is that she’s now staying here. Heliodora Locke! She said just for one night but I’m hoping for one thousand and one. More later. The sun’s about to rise.
March 5. Spent this afternoon, in a daze, at the Osler Library, where Dr. Vorta had reserved some “Restricted” books for me, for on-site consultation only.
Turned out to be a blind alley. Or maybe I was distracted by … other things. Anyway, when I arrived home, a surprise awaited me. Samira and JJ had made some radical changes—improvements—to the house. Which Norval may have paid for (?!). Tried phoning him today, but no answer, not even from the answering machine. Beginning to worry.
March 6. Didn’t see Samira today or yesterday (except briefly last night as JJ and I let off some fireworks for my mom, which left Sam unimpressed, underwhelmed).
TV reenthroned in the family room after I found Mom, in tears, searching for it in the garage with her hunter’s lamp.
March 7. Mom had wild, shrieking nightmares last night, so JJ prepared an antidote, a Schuessler Tissue Salt: Natrum sulphorica, 12X. Thank God for JJ. I just don’t have time to do this sort of thing. I’m putting in twelve hours now, both in the basement and at Ex Pysch, where Dr. Vorta’s been generous with his time and facilities. What would I do without him?
This morning Mom came down and asked me if I had any extra money, just a little bit because she’d like to go shopping. She said a birthday was coming up and she had to buy a gift. Whose birthday is it, Mom? Your Uncle Phil’s, she replied. And she was right.
Came up to spend the evening with Mom—JJ went back to his place to work in his hothouse