Memoirous

Textbook (not exactly amemoir) By Amy Krouse Rosenthal Dutton, 2016 Not exactly a memoir, told in the form of a textbook. A cute gimmick. But it works. Really, really works. We get patches, glimpses where we nod our head in recognition, then slowly, think: I could be writing about that except— I never once—and here it is strange because all I do at this blog is tell people to record the ordinary—except I didn’t think it was important. The very meaning of ordinary. We don’t recognize it until it is gone. Just like, you always thought there would be, would never go away, could never imagine the world without, until a sighting becomes a cause for celebration. Things that used to be always: Monarch butterflies Worms on the sidewalk after a rain Bookstores So next time you get that niggling thought—jot it down. You might not end up with a New York bestselling Textbook, but you will have a record of having lived a life. ...

Encyclopedia of an OrdinaryLife Amy Krouse Rosenthal Three Rivers Press Reading this book posthumously—hers not mine—means every word, every thought experiment takes on a life of its own, an importance not originally intended. Even the subtext on the cover: I have not survived against all odds. I have not lived to tell. I have not witnessed the extraordinary. This is my story. Rosenthal is contagious. Her joy, her exuberance. She is not annoying. What she’s been able to do is make me think, just possibly, we might someday to walk this road together, the ones of us still here. Things Amy and I have in common: Kenneth Koch A few mutual acquaintances An appreciation for the ordinary That’s why her book has resonated with me. Even the prescient entries that when I read them I cringe: RETURNING TO LIFE AFTER BEING DEAD YOU DISTRACTION Thanks for your 51 years and insights into life. You crammed a lot of observation into a short span. How many ti...

First—just like Amy—I used to think the word was a typo; it should be post-humorously, meaning death is beyond humor. There is no more laughter. You see Amy died earlier this year. March to be exact. A crappy month is the crappiest of years. Years we will come to think of as post-humorously. Which makes reading her wit and zest for life and love all the more bittersweet. Every word, every reflection is now colored with this knowledge: she writes no more. I dwell in this tension—I wish I’d known her when alive. Glad I hadn’t known her, as the idea of losing her would be overwhelming, especially in last days of winter in a hard, hard year. Then came the viral of viralist: her piece in The New Yorker announcing 1) she was dying, 2) she hadn’t passed yet, 3) why I might like to date her husband. If you haven’t read this essay then what rock have you been hiding under. You must be the last person on earth not to have read it. The world cried reading it and cried again ...