September 28, 2010 at 10:31 pm (Uncategorized)

Between school and making my own art, I’m working so hard these days. Trying to get a million prints hand-colored in time for the Print Fair, trying to get a big installation done in time for Miami. And then, there’s those four classes, two of which are three-hour lectures, which take forever to prepare for. I am barely keeping my head above water.

My therapist has me keeping a dream journal. Through this process, I have learned that I am a hungrier and angrier person than I ever let myself be. The vast majority of my dreams either involve me eating vast quantities of sweets (chocolate, cake, cookies, etc) or just being furious, usually something involving something with someone going into the bedroom I had as a teenager, without my permission (go all freudian on that, I know). Or sometimes about our current apartment being huge and me getting lost in it, or my dog running away and then I’m heartbroken. My dream journal is extra depressing.

And random, but: I don’t have any photos of myself from growing up. There’s a bunch of silly reasons as to why it is, but ultimately it’s just one of those things that just is. So I only have my memories from growing up to depend upon, which is sort of interesting. I know my memories aren’t always accurate because no one ever remembers things with total accuracy and certainly, when you’re factoring in a difference of 25 or 30 or more years, things get iffy. So I was really amazed to see this photo the other day:

I don’t know why, but I still remember the address of the house that we lived in when we were in Houston all the way back in 1979 (for the record, I also remember things like all the words to Full Fathom Five, which I had to memorize in high school, and most if not all of the Catholic Mass call-and-response parts). It was shocking to me to see that it’s just the way I remembered it. Not the color or anything like that, but the architecture – I’m sure there have been tons of changes to it over the years, but the basic structure of the house is exactly as I remember it.

I think most people believe their memories until they’re proven wrong; that for most people, to question the truth in their mind is to consider being completely crazy, which is a scary thing. For me, I just assume I’ve remembered things wrong. So to see something like this – something relatively minor and unimportant, like the architecture of that house – and to realize I got it totally right is really… interesting.



  1. Mab MacMoragh said,

    that’s very interesting amy- i rarely get more than one or two things done per day since i sleep so much

    the backlog grows and grows and grows

    this is mostly what i dream about too, my miles-long to-do list and my inability to accomplish anything on it, sometimes with vague impressions of the vastness of the sea and stars, and depths of both, and of eyes, and death, and flying (which is a recurring dream from early childhood until the present)

    as a child i lived in so many places they’ve all run together in my mind

    i’ve always grappled with reality through pictures so all my memories are founded on photographs and drawings, if a picture doesn’t exist, than neither does the memory

  2. amywilson said,

    Ah! I realized I left out a really important element of the story:
    That photo above is from Google Maps. I typed the address in and looked at the house from street view. So I have had the memory in my brain all these years without having a picture to compare it to, and only now have I had access to what the house looks like (and that’s what it looks like now, not when I was a kid). That’s what was so surprising to me – that the memory held up, with nothing to sort of keep it alive.

    Extra confusing. But I’m extra tired.

  3. Mab MacMoragh said,

    that’s amazing- what if google maps could go back in time to how things looked before (although all photographs are a frozen moment in the past already)

  4. Andrew Thornton said,

    To add to the confusion, have a sibling or two and their recollections. All of us have had similar memories and experiences. And it’s inevitable for us to fight for who’s memory it actually is. For instance, my sister Cynthia and I both swear up and down and across the universe that it only one of us used to go into my grandma’s backyard and eat tomatoes with a salt shaker. She says that I’ve heard the story so many times that I’ve committed it to my own personal history. But I remember it and I can taste the tomatoes still when I think about it. So we argue…

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