story of my life, pt 2

So, on a dark, stormy night—or was it morning? Midday? No I think it was at like 2:34 am, so it was either morning or night, you pick. As I was saying. So on a dark, stormy [night/morning] of a Monday…or was it a Tuesday? I feel like a lot of these early details could be explained by reading my baby book. As I was saying. On a dark, stormy [morning/night] of some day of some week on April 4^th, 1991, I was born. Son of Judy Berger and Ray Powers, the boy was to be known, forever and always, as Adam Berger Powers.

This is the oh-so dramatic beginning of my life. I warn you, it is verbose, thematically packed, silly, faux-intellectual, ridonkulous, indifferent, racy, despicable, and too meaningful to label with a definite set of adjectives (thus I stop here). Or maybe it’s just very…me. And that’s all. And that’s what I want it to be, for you. I may be inserting an essay or two that I’ve written outside of this session (i.e. creative writing class, English class, etc, etc…) it’s all very integral to my understanding—to your understanding I mean—or so I think. Thus here I am. If you’re lucky, you’ll get more facts and story than analysis and me just saying insolent, time wasting things like this. If not, well at least know I’ve tried.

So my first memory is a strange one. I’m not even sure it is my first memory, actually. I have a very terrible memory, to be sure, so a lot of my childhood is watched in my mind as a movie in fast, stop motion, claymation scene reels. This meaning that I think back to le past and see my life in periods where this or that may have occurred more than once—thus that period will be defined by said occurrence. For example: a lot of my childhood was marked by my mother scheduling events for me, such as soccer, baseball, art, etc. (I shall approach the subject matter fully when we get there). This period of time will thusly be associated with my mother controlling and scheduling and taking me places. As is life. I’m sure that doesn’t sound much different than most people, but you will see what I mean.

As I was saying, my first DSTINCNT memory isn’t exactly my first memory. I can remember periods of associated times before my first memory, but this is just the exact memory that I usually pick as my first when asked—and I’m not exactly sure why. The memory is of my sister’s birth (I’ll get to family trees later). I don’t exactly remember my mom being at all pregnant when I look back on it, but one day I was with her in the hospital and she may or may not have given birth. But I remember it was on or around easter day, thus we were being shoved full of bunnies and eggs and candy. I remember sitting on a ledge that was next to a window holding or being given this egg with a chick inside. The chick was one of those crafty ones: the torso was made out of this fuzz ball, the ones that you usually use for arts in crafts as a little kid to make monsters and assorted sculptures, but then realize as you get older that they’re not as aesthetically pleasing to the eye as most materials, and they just feel cool. Well then I was a kid so I didn’t mind the unaesthetic feel. But the torso was one of those puff balls—a yellow one—and it had these chicken-leg things glued on as legs. I don’t remember why I remember this so well.

So there you go, my first memory in so much detail you don’t know what to do with it. No but really. It doesn’t seem to mean anything. But maybe one could look at the symbolism of easter and chicks and births and new beginnings and beginnings of memory. Or maybe one could look at the wasted space. I thought I’d put that out there, just cuz. I know you already have a life story written out just in case you die, and maybe this could be my memoirs. Seemingly pointless and pointlessly seemless. As is life.