As I pen these words, I deal with the effects of what happened in the early fall of 1994. I forget things - I've learned that a short pencil is better than a long memory - and only come to cherished memories with the help of pictures or scents. Although playing with aromas is playing with fire. Certain smells trigger avalanches of uncontrollable memories: the smell of steak releases an onslaught of memories of my family; brewing coffee frees Shannie; burning leaves remind me of Count; cigar smoke evokes Russell and Main Street; burnt rubber takes me back to Atlantic City. The force of such memories paralyzes me. It's as if my memories have me. It makes for a distracted lifestyle. Pictures are much safer, they aren't the frayed edge of an unpredictable memory strand.
Since my accident, I have a tendency to befuddle. I fly into tangents. I rarely finish a thought let alone a project. My shrink suggested penning this, she says it's great exercise in staying focused; I pray it will exercise my demons. My shrink is a sadist, but she's patient. Krista is everything I like in a woman, too bad she's married and has kids. If she wasn't, I'd do her. The age difference wouldn't bother me.
There isn't a smell that triggers a clear memory of what happened that September night. My father insists I was driving around looking for Ellie, she ran away the previous night. He said I was worried sick - I don't remember. I do remember it was raining. I don't remember hitting the pole. He says no one witnessed the accident. The police said that my car was wrapped around the pole like an accordion. I was found sprawled across the front seat, unconscious. They said I was lucky not to be wearing my seatbelt, if I was I would have been sliced in two by the door. I'd rather not think about the details. Diane and my father took pictures of my hooptie - for posterity sake, they said; I refuse to look at them, the idea seems morbid.
I could have sworn there was someone in the car with me, both my father and the police insist I was alone. Why would they lie? I guess it's another example of how people once present in my life haunt me.
For a week I battled for my life, slipping in and out of a coma. Ironically, my most powerful memory occurred the instant I hit the pole. It's more like a feeling than anything else, a feeling of floating in water, but not separate from it, as if I was becoming part of it. The water's current separating whatever remained of my identity from my being. I felt myself letting go - dividing in countless parts, all rushing to join distant parts. The feeling was rapturous! Then everything turned black.