In the rare book store, I find two copies of my rarest book, a chapbook of poems titled I Would Steal Horses. One copy of my book is in perfect condition and is priced at $7,000. The other copy is battered a bit and only costs $900. Only! I don’t buy the books, of course. That would be a foolish and expensive display of vanity.
My book was published in 1992. I'd only received 100 copies as payment and gave them away to family and friends. But, in that book store, I discover those two rare copies are warmly inscribed by me to people whose names baffle me now, even though they’re uncommon names that should make them easier to recall.
Why can't I remember these people who must've mattered to me three decades ago? Did I break their hearts? Did they break mine? Did our friendships end with anger or shame? Or simple inattention? I don't know. Did somebody else inscribe these books with my name? No, that’s my handwriting. And it’s my real signature, not the exaggerated one that I’ve been using to sign books since my career became so strange and unwieldy.
Jesus, what kind of asshole am I? Look at me! The cruel amnesiac! But am I the only one who's forgotten the name and face of somebody they used to love? I don’t think so. I suspect that’s happened to each of us. After all, how could any of us survive if we memorized a comprehensive list of every loss and regret?
I’ve listened and read this thread in Phnom Penh, Cambodia. iPhones are miraculous. The reason I’m here is that 13 years ago I was sitting in a cafe in this same city and a 10 year old girl walked thru selling books. I said ‘no’ to the books and then asked ‘Are you hungry?’ She nodded and looked at the floor. I called the waitress over and she ate.
Yesterday she cooked me a meal in the new house she and her new husband have built in their home village. She said the meal was the same that she ordered 13 years ago. Beyond comprehension.
Inscriptions like fossils of long- forgotten relationships.