_I FORGOT_ (the complete text)

I Forgot

In 6th grade, I forgot the word our, and wrote are instead. Sometimes I think it would have been better if I’d forgotten the other way around.

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I almost always forgot/forget the names of flowers. I have even forgotten forget-me-nots.

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I was once at an Ohio Arts Council meeting in Columbus, Ohio in support of a local organization’s grant application. The moderator of the meeting asked that everyone in the audience take turns standing up and introducing themselves. I stood up and promptly forgot my name.

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I have often forgotten that others don’t necessarily share my confusions—about sex, poetry, and the art of living. Other people are apparently confused about other things—or, I guess, confused about nothing at all.

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One morning, halfway to work, the unbidden question: Had I closed the garage door? Turned around, headed back home. Passed my house. Forgot to see if I’d closed the garage door. Had to go back again.

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From 3rd through 5th grade, I attended a Special School. It was an urban institution that had a dual function. It was a neighborhood school in a majority black neighborhood. It also had programs for kids with disabilities. I fell into the latter camp. But I hung out, of course, with the black kids and picked up on their language. Sometimes I forgot to leave their lingo at school. In those days, the early sixties, it was apparently a novelty for a caucasian 3rd grader to, exasperated, say “muthafucka” in the presence of his Mom.

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I sometimes forgot that I was a problem child, but my parents were happy to remind me.

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I once, as a child, forgot to brush my teeth before going to the dentist. When he examined my mouth, he asked if I’d eaten cake before coming to see him. I thought he was a genius. How did he know that?

When I told my mother about this exchange, she explained (in no uncertain terms).

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I often have forgotten how embarrassing it can be to be around me.

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I have often forgotten to remember to “mind my Ps and Qs.”

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“I forgot” doesn’t work well as an alibi, justification or excuse.

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This habit of mine: setting a stack of books in front of me: fiction, memoir, philosophy, poetry, art criticism -- a mix of genres, voices, images, concerns. Reading several pages of each volume by turn, back and forth, between different environments of ideas and feeling. At some point I will have forgotten which book I am in. It all becomes part of an ongoing conversation/jam session. At some points I’m more present and attentive than at others.
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I once forgot to set the alarm clock and woke up at the correct time anyway. Actually, that’s happened more than once.

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The nagging thought that I’ve forgotten something—but what?--often haunts me.

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Then there are the things I wish I could forget but never will.

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I cannot maintain my masks for long. I forget my selves. And then try to put them back on, inhabit them again. Of course, they aren’t always recyclable. And, of course, I’ve alienated “friends” along the way. In forgetting, there is both loss and gain.

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One can forget to feel hurt when one is distracted. I forgot my stubbed toe when my partner said something funny.

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Writing is an advanced form of forgetting.

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I have often forgotten how to spell words I thought I knew. Everything is strange.

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I have forgotten much more than I remember. Cues, psychic triggers, can bring things back though on occasion. Seeing a home movie of a landscape from childhood can evoke cascading memories.

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I have forgotten to put postage stamps on letters.

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I once forgot to remind someone to wake up in time to get to work on time and that person had a bad day.

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Once I forgot to give a shit about something I should have given a shit about. Actually, that happens quite often.

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Once I forgot to shave. And I was reminded that I had forgotten.

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Until recently forgotten: I, as an adolescent, reported the sighting of what I thought to be a UFO. The policeman said it was Sputnik.

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I almost always forget movies and television shows shortly after viewing them.

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I forgot milk.

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I forgot lubricant.

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I forgot what you tasted like.

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I forgot to “keep my distance.”

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On the subway in NYC, I forgot to “not look” at other passengers.

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I have forgotten to “keep my mouth shut.”

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Sometimes I forget to be afraid.

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Sometimes I forget to ask for help.

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I forgot to return the library book.

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I forgot to add baking soda when making chocolate chip cookies.

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I “forgot” to do my homework.

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I forgot you’re dead.

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I sometimes forget what it’s like to feel loved.

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I forgot the year of your birth.

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I forgot where to put the comma.

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I forgot to thank you.

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I forgot to apologize.

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I forgot to explain myself to you.

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I forgot that you and I have different ways of perceiving, embracing, and withdrawing from the world.

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I forgot that there’s little which is obvious.

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I forgot to not assume too much.

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I forgot to preheat the oven.

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I forgot to thump (or not to thump) my chest.

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I forgot to be present.

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I forgot to praise someone.

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I forgot to “get over myself.”

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I forgot to watch where I was walking.

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I forgot to include you in what I was doing.

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I forgot how loud I might be singing with the earphones on.

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I forgot that I’m a failure, but I was reminded.

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After a big buildup, I forgot the punch line again.

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I forgot to get off on the right exit.

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I forgot to get you off.

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I forgot to tell him off.

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I forgot to introduce you.

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I forgot what it’s like to be young.

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I forgot to pretend.

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I forgot to swallow my pride.

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I forgot to not have another drink.

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I forgot to reveal that while I may well be a great listener, there are things I want to say and have heard too.

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I forgot to assert my presence.

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I forgot where I was.

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I forgot to save money.

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I forgot who I wanted to be.

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I forgot to remind you to do whatever it was you wanted me to remind you to do.

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I forgot that I can’t sing and sang anyway.

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I forgot the rules of the game.

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I forgot to be compliant.

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I forgot that I wrote that poem.

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I forgot that I’m not as transparent as I feel.

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I forgot to return your call.

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I forgot to watch where I was going.

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I forgot to “be in the moment.”

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I forgot to take the picture.

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I forgot to write the poem down.

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I forgot to find the courage to ask you out.

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I forgot to look in the mirror.

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I forgot that when I look at you that you look back at me.

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I have the nagging suspicion that I’ve forgotten something again.

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Forgetting is a kind of continuum. It ranges from protective to destructive behavior with all kinds of stops in-between.

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Forgetting can be thought of as almost a kind of music or painting – oscillating intervals and/or blanks, don’t you know.

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Forgetting can be a gift and it can be several kinds of hell.

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I forgot to salt it.

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I forgot to tell you that your friend called.

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I forgot to tell you what your friend called you.

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I forgot to be obsequious.

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I forgot to make contingency plans.

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I forgot to look before crossing the street.

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I forgot to read the Owner’s Manual.

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I forgot to take the medicine.

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I forgot to pay attention.

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I forgot to declare my intentions.

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I forgot, upon waking, to write a seemingly important recognition down.

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For the most part, I forget my dreams.

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I forgot where I parked.

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We were interrupted and I forgot what we had been talking about.

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I forgot to say what I had planned to say.

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I forgot to chase down a reference.

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I forgot to observe protocol.

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I forgot to fast before the physical.

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I forgot to be on my best behavior.

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I forgot to adjust the volume.

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I forgot to think before acting.

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I forgot to tell you what I really think.

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I forgot that you’re not into poetry.

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I forgot that I was supposed to focus more on making money than making poetry.

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I forgot that I am not valued by you unless I agree with your decisions.

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I forgot that you once acted on the stage.

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I forgot to send flowers.

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I forgot to express my condolences.

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I forgot to swallow.

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I forgot to vote.

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I forgot to emote.

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I forgot the taste of semen.

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I forgot when they planned to leave and didn’t want to ask.

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I forgot, for a moment, what you look like.

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I had forgotten, or perhaps never before realized, that my childhood home on Cherry Lane was very small.

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I had forgotten to remember that I thought I wanted to surrender.

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I forgot to remove the carcass from the backyard.

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I forgot to react to his taunts.

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I forgot to mask my desire.

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I forgot to look at my “to-do list.”

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I forgot which version of my story was a fantasy.

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I forgot to put the leftovers in the fridge.

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I forgot my lines.

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I forgot to meet you halfway.

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I forgot to tighten the bottle cap.

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I forgot that you are allergic to shellfish.

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I forgot that you are my sworn enemy.

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I forgot that your political views are repugnant to me.

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I forgot that you’re a bad listener.

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I forgot an “I FORGOT” segment that I meant to write down.

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I forgot to write an important email.

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I forgot to learn from a particularly egregious mistake.

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I forgot to greet her in Spanish.

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I forgot to savor a moment.

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I forgot to purchase a gift.

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I forgot to put on PPE (personal protective equipment) before entering the building.

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I forgot your middle name.

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I forgot that you didn’t want a sensitive man, you wanted someone sensitive to your needs.

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I forgot that everything can change without warning.

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I forgot wonder.

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I forgot and wandered.

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I forgot about the weather and entered it.

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I forgot and then thought about forgetting.

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I forgot and then I made a list.