Memoir
“Introspective of My Heartless Memoir,” by Armin Utreras
Those who have the credentials for it tell us that human memory is a storytelling process, that somehow – and it’s not entirely clear just how – we maintain in our mysterious minds coherent narratives that help us know and perhaps understand ourselves, here and now, by continuously interpreting the past. It’s a physical process, apparently, but it emerges as immaterial thought. We call it remembrance, and it’s not necessarily true as “history,” but it is the way we interpret our time on Earth. It’s helpful to keep in mind while writing or reading a memoir that our stories are subject to continuous revision.
These pages of remembrance have taken shape sporadically over a number of years and will continue to take shape as I continue to ponder the stories I have in my head and to render them as written discourse. I reserve the right to revise continually, but for the most part, what’s here is what I believe to be true about myself.
Technically, not all of the chapters below are ready for publication, so it’s a work in progress I hope to complete someday, not that any memoir can be complete, because, finally, our stories come to an end, and who knows how I might want to revise these pages as I lie dying? In any case, I’ll try not to worry about it. I’ve been curious about the moment of death since I was a child, and I don’t want to miss it by being preoccupied with yet another edition of my memoir.
So, to the few who may read some or all of these pages, welcome; and to the few who occupy these pages, I beg your forgiveness for my lapses of fact and interpretation. I mean no harm.
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The pelican papers 