I Remember: Andrés Felipe Solano
Thinking of Joe Brainard's "I remember" [whose model was followed by Georges Perec and so many others], we asked Colombian writer Andrés Felipe Solano to share with us some of his memories. This is what he sent us.
I remember feeling dizzy to the point of nausea right before my first communion.
I remember an older cousin flipping his eyelids inside out to scare me.
I remember the night my parents went to a concert-café called La Gata Caliente and a motorcycle hit their car as they were leaving a gas station. My mother was pregnant. She told me a million little pieces of glass ended up sprinkled like salt all over her belly.
I remember renting F/X and Big Trouble in Little China from the neighborhood video store.
I remember my father flirting with a woman in a swimming pool.
I remember my grandmother’s big house, her maid ringing the bell every Saturday to let us know that the beans were served for lunch.
I remember that the youngest of my uncles had a Smith & Wesson revolver hidden in his closet. He bought it in the United States in the 1980s.
I remember slightly burning my leg against the exhaust pipe of a motorcycle during vacations in Neiva.
I remember a small plane which crashed into a house two blocks from ours.
I remember my father buying lasagna from an Italian lady who had a red-haired daughter.
I remember listening to The Cure from a tape recorder and drinking beer with a friend one night, on the top floor of a mall parking lot.
I remember the beetles that would come out during rainy season in Bogota. In parks, especially on wet grass, you could find them by the handful.
I remember my mother’s smell when she came back from work, a mix of smog and Amarige de Givenchy, her perfume for many years.
I remember the priest we’d bump into as children during lunch in the school cafeteria. He was in a wheelchair, a nurse moved him around. He used to drool but always raised a hand to greet us.
I remember the thick milk that would come out every time I ripped a leaf off the rubber tree we had in front of the house. I remember my sticky fingers.
I remember seeing a very good-looking woman out of the corner of my eye fix the bottom of her bikini after coming out of the sea. It was the first time I saw a woman’s pubic hair.
I remember that as a kid I wanted to be a construction worker. I remember that veteran construction workers were called “master builders.”
I remember that a homeless boy showed up in our neighborhood one day. He was a kind of child-wolf who came out of the forest and arrived there, I don’t know why or what for. He had dark skin, stained with an old dirtiness that couldn’t be cleaned off anymore. A natural dribbler, he was playing soccer with us a week later. He was bow-legged. He left the same way he arrived.
I remember the thick ice cap that slowly accumulated on the walls of the refrigerator. Our own polar landscape at home.
I remember Lui, the first porn magazine I ever saw. It was French. I couldn’t get the girl in the centerfold out of my mind for many months. She had that chestnut hair that turns blonde from too much sun. I recently realized that years later I went out with a woman who looked very much like her.
I remember my grandmother wearing a turban like Greta Garbo’s.
I remember the human jaw that a friend and I found when we went to the Central Cemetery of Bogota to take some photographs.
I remember going to the country with my father and younger brother to hunt wood pigeons with a German compressed air shotgun, Diana brand. It had an image of the Roman hunting goddess engraved on the cannon. We were never able to hit a bird.
I remember that the school library had a first edition of Baudelaire’s The Flowers of Evil. A classmate stole it. I hope he still has it.
I remember the metallic taste of anesthesia after having my tonsils taken out.
I remember my mother dressed up as a flamenco dancer looking at herself in the mirror for a long time before heading out to a costume party.
Other entries:
Carmen Boullosa
Sebastián Antezana
Martín Kohan
Sergio Chejfec
Margo Glantz
I remember feeling dizzy to the point of nausea right before my first communion.
I remember an older cousin flipping his eyelids inside out to scare me.
I remember the night my parents went to a concert-café called La Gata Caliente and a motorcycle hit their car as they were leaving a gas station. My mother was pregnant. She told me a million little pieces of glass ended up sprinkled like salt all over her belly.
I remember renting F/X and Big Trouble in Little China from the neighborhood video store.
I remember my father flirting with a woman in a swimming pool.
I remember my grandmother’s big house, her maid ringing the bell every Saturday to let us know that the beans were served for lunch.
I remember that the youngest of my uncles had a Smith & Wesson revolver hidden in his closet. He bought it in the United States in the 1980s.
I remember slightly burning my leg against the exhaust pipe of a motorcycle during vacations in Neiva.
I remember a small plane which crashed into a house two blocks from ours.
I remember my father buying lasagna from an Italian lady who had a red-haired daughter.
I remember listening to The Cure from a tape recorder and drinking beer with a friend one night, on the top floor of a mall parking lot.
I remember the beetles that would come out during rainy season in Bogota. In parks, especially on wet grass, you could find them by the handful.
I remember my mother’s smell when she came back from work, a mix of smog and Amarige de Givenchy, her perfume for many years.
I remember the priest we’d bump into as children during lunch in the school cafeteria. He was in a wheelchair, a nurse moved him around. He used to drool but always raised a hand to greet us.
I remember the thick milk that would come out every time I ripped a leaf off the rubber tree we had in front of the house. I remember my sticky fingers.
I remember seeing a very good-looking woman out of the corner of my eye fix the bottom of her bikini after coming out of the sea. It was the first time I saw a woman’s pubic hair.
I remember that as a kid I wanted to be a construction worker. I remember that veteran construction workers were called “master builders.”
I remember that a homeless boy showed up in our neighborhood one day. He was a kind of child-wolf who came out of the forest and arrived there, I don’t know why or what for. He had dark skin, stained with an old dirtiness that couldn’t be cleaned off anymore. A natural dribbler, he was playing soccer with us a week later. He was bow-legged. He left the same way he arrived.
I remember the thick ice cap that slowly accumulated on the walls of the refrigerator. Our own polar landscape at home.
I remember Lui, the first porn magazine I ever saw. It was French. I couldn’t get the girl in the centerfold out of my mind for many months. She had that chestnut hair that turns blonde from too much sun. I recently realized that years later I went out with a woman who looked very much like her.
I remember my grandmother wearing a turban like Greta Garbo’s.
I remember the human jaw that a friend and I found when we went to the Central Cemetery of Bogota to take some photographs.
I remember going to the country with my father and younger brother to hunt wood pigeons with a German compressed air shotgun, Diana brand. It had an image of the Roman hunting goddess engraved on the cannon. We were never able to hit a bird.
I remember that the school library had a first edition of Baudelaire’s The Flowers of Evil. A classmate stole it. I hope he still has it.
I remember the metallic taste of anesthesia after having my tonsils taken out.
I remember my mother dressed up as a flamenco dancer looking at herself in the mirror for a long time before heading out to a costume party.
Other entries:
Carmen Boullosa
Sebastián Antezana
Martín Kohan
Sergio Chejfec
Margo Glantz
