I have finally managed to put a name to the face of one of the fears I have been living with. I am not really sure that “fear” or “phobia” are appropriate terms but I am definitively sure that they come to mind every so often. More often than that, actually.
The long word in the title is a name for a fear of forgetfulness or of being forgotten. For me, it’s not about the second part as I would be mad running around trying to ensure people remember you by, for example, pestering them to read your occasional blog when you scrape some time to actually write it. It is about moments, experiences and thoughts that come and go and never come back. It borders on a condition called “Šohizam” (read: show-hee-sm), a term coined within my close circle of friends. Named after a great and inspiring shaman of our local musical society, Šoha, who managed to overthrow evil attacks of poor times and general indolence and instil in us the love for sounds of rusty but golden brass orchestra, red and blue uniforms and sunrise marches on May 1st, it is a disturbing but understanding syndrome.
The premise is simple: collect as much as you can, on paper, in wood, engraved or digitalised as people come and go and memories fade away. But those people do amazing things in the meantime. We quite often laughed at his pushy and manically enthusiastic attempts to gather us in one spot for a photo, running around us like a shepherd dog armed with his waving index finger and a whistle (hey, who’s the dog now).
I look at those photos today and thank him with my every breath as I, thanks to him, remember.
The missing pieces
There are some moments you wish to leave behind. Some of them so dreadful, some of them so painful and some of them just and simply so dull that the thought of reliving them has enough power to form a phobia on its own.
Then, there are those that make the world make sense. These will never go away. The ones that silence and muffle all sounds like after a nearby explosion, and produce a single-note ringing pleasantly reminding you that you are alive. Those ones you cherish and call them yours and store in a safe forever.
One of those happened very recently when three very special people I proudly boast about as my friends put an umbrella over a man, like a dot in the “i”, and finished their first of many-to-come albums, giving us a collective lesson on how persistent pouring of your heart, soul and existence into nights and days of tones, thoughts and ideas is worth it. They gave us their recording called “How to forget the missing pieces” and their name is Grozny Corp (look them up under @GroznyCorp on Instagram and Twitter). And I applaud them. And you for listening.
I will be piling their crap up in every shape and form as they are one of those who’ll do amazingly well in the meantime.
Not to forget my last week
As discussed earlier, in order to aid my fear/phobia and remember why I started this, here’s how the week went, in short summary (I don’t plan to report on my weeks, but this one was eventful):
Monday — saw War Dogs in Greenwich Picturehouse and was amazed by the small sentence that the guys were given for smuggling weapons and defrauding the government.
Tuesday — went to archery and worked on cutting my arrows and tuning the bow.
Wednesday — saw Dan Deacon in Roundhouse as a part of a stream of immersive performances in Ron Arad’s installation Curtain Call.
Thursday — friend’s birthday with Mexican food and cocktails. Viva Happy Hours!
Friday — did a bit of beginners salsa dancing.
Saturday — sang the Smelly Cat on the set of the series Friends at FriendsFest.
Sunday — spent on White Cliffs of Dover staring at what will soon be the borders of the European Union.