Juxtapostion: Time as a Place. ( aka A Forgotten Corner of this World, Full of Love)

I happened to be reacquainting myself with the land of the social network, when I found myself watching a little film about a man and his home and then reading a poem about memories. The film is about a man who is the type of obscure NY character who gives the city its quintessential stature as a hotbed of idiosynchorcies, the whole spectrum of humankind's attributes crammed into a slender island, invigorating its shifting architectural landscape with an awesome collage of individuals. While reading about this individual and all the little stories and objects he has collected, I encountered a poem about the struggle we have with our own past and memories, a tug of war that we all deal with to some extent everday and that summarizes who we were, who we want to be and how that informs who we are now. The poem was sent by Aditi in Bombay. The film was shared by Roger Ebert in his incomparable Twitterfeed.

The juxtaposition makes for an interesting pairing.

The link to the film:
http://vimeo.com/37093042#embed

The poem:

Hard Life with Memory Wisława Szymborska

I’m a poor audience for my memory.
She wants me to attend her voice nonstop,
but I fidget, fuss,
listen and don’t,
step out, come back, then leave again.

She wants all my time and attention.
She’s got no problem when I sleep.
The day’s a different matter, which upsets her.

She thrusts old letters, snapshots at me eagerly,
stirs up events both important and un-,
turns my eyes to overlooked views,
peoples them with my dead.

In her stories I’m always younger.
Which is nice, but why always the same story.
Every mirror holds different news for me.

She gets angry when I shrug my shoulders.
And takes revenge by hauling out old errors,
weighty, but easily forgotten.
Looks into my eyes, checks my reaction.
Then comforts me, it could be worse.

She wants me to live only for her and with her.
Ideally in a dark, locked room,
but my plans still feature today’s sun,
clouds in progress, ongoing roads.

At times I get fed up with her.
I suggest a separation. From now to eternity.
Then she smiles at me with pity,
since she knows it would be the end of me too.