On The (non)Existence of Memory
Recently I have been thinking about memory, and whether there is any truth in what we remember. To remember is to archive an interpretation of a moment, and the feelings that came with it.
When I was about eight years old, my dad read me a children's book about general relativity (yes, that exists, and no, you should not expose an eight-year-old to time dilation). Since then I have had a complicated relationship with time and dedicated a concerning amount of that precious resource to ruminating on the past, especially the nature of memory.
A few weeks before I started fifth grade, my mom and I went to Kohl's. It was just the two of us, and I was sitting in the passenger seat of our Honda Odyssey for the first time ever. I felt like a big kid. I remember thinking in that moment: one day you will remember this as the day you became a big kid.
Because I can remember it so vividly, does this moment exist? Where do memories live? I know that they live in the electrical signals of my brain, or something like that, but certainly there must be some level of existence beyond brain chemistry.
My existence is a collection of memories: my personality, my beliefs, my hopes and dreams, my darkest secrets and my borderline parasocial relationship with Bo Burnham and my obsession with The Killers. I'll never forget the day I heard Sam's Town for the first time, in a hotel parking lot in Nebraska, using my brother's iPod Video. The iPod video, by the way, was the coolest thing I'd seen since Hello Kitty.
So many of my opinions and beliefs are shaped by assumptions I made when I was too young to know what a belief even was.
When I was a kid, I thought that the pinnacle of wealth was not using your front door. Rich people, I thought, would never enter their homes through a beautiful front entry way with a solid wood door and a welcome mat. No, rich people use the side entrance. Rich people have garage doors that open when you type in a code and lead you into a mud room. Rich people love their mudrooms. To be honest, I still half believe this. The next time you go to the home of a very wealthy person, ask yourself how many possible paths to entry there are. The answer is likely greater than three.
My point is... Well, I'm not sure what my point is. I guess I urge you to think about memory, think about how and where you exist beyond your physical self, and the beauty that comes with our ability to remember.
Also, over the past two weekends I've been exploring parts of The Finger Lakes Trail and the North Country Trail, and that's given me time to reflect on anything and everything in my life. On mile nine of an eight mile hike (I got lost) I realized that I was able to be alone with my thoughts, which I previously had found quite difficult. I realized that I knew who I was, and who I wanted to be. I felt happy, and I didn't immediately try to quantify that happiness. I felt at peace.
And then I turned on a podcast.
P.S. Did ya miss me? I'm working on blogging more. I promise. Stay tuned for some book reviews too.
