Memories - Redux
Feb. 13th, 2005 06:24 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
joshwritingI made mention of this, in my last post. Here it is, along with the major response and mt reply to that. (My typoes are left intact.)
Memories (posted by Joshshaine, OBOL, June 7 2003)
Memories are funny things. I find myself increasingly drawn into
discussions of memories as I get older. This is odd, to me, as the
more time goes by the less I know. Not just in perentage, which is
to be expected, but in total.
Don't get me wrong. I am not dicussing the dying of brain cells and
the progression of incipient senility.
I am talking about not knowing what happened in large swaths of ones life. I have not remembered my childhood for as long as I can remember discussing memories. THere are a ffw things that I can picture, but most of the memories I retain of childhood are in the form of stories - things that I can imagine from the OUTSIDE< but not the inside. They didn't happen to my SELF, but to some mythical Josh. They have about as much reality to me as any story told to me of somebody whom I know the looks of, in a place that I can imagine. I realize that to some of you this will evoke a "Woah... I can't imagine NOT remembering that..." while for others, it will seem as commonplace as anything.
As I said, this is NOT a new phenomenon.
But the 'more' was brought sharply to my attention earlier this week,
while we were cleaning my office. A friend of mine and I were on our
third day of doing the cleaning (remember the thread on messiness when
I accused folks of being pikers? There was a reason!) - a total of 20
hours or so. (We only have another 14 or so to go, we think!)
She pulled out a restaurant slip with no date and no information about
the place itself on it. It had the items ordered, the total, a notation of tip, and a comment about a t-shirt being bought... I glanced at it, and observed: Iowa City, May, 1991. The school was on a field trip. She looked at me, and then at the slip. And back at me. "How can you tell that from looking at this slip, like that?" Of course, my normal flip answer would have been "How can you not?" But I didn't (for a change) go for the cheap shot. I DID, on the other hand, let it go. Into the recycling/mixed paper bag it went.
A while later, she asked me, "Do you want a Thanksgiving Card from Max?"
"Max? Max WHO?!" "I don't know - it just says "Max!"
I took the card from her, read the words of thanks, and announced,
"Max Gao!" She took the card back, and found nothing. "How can you
know from looking at the same first name that I read aloud, who it is from? And she glanced to see if oerhaps there was something she had missed. But there wasn't. I explained:
"It is not in the name, nor in the writing, but in the visual of the whole card, of seeing the words he penned there. The feelings that I get reading it now, they bring back the feelings that I had then. THAT is how I know."
But there is more, then, that came from that explanation. "When I let a piece of paper, like that resaurant receipt from Iowa go, I am giving up a memory. I will not have that recollection again, without that trigger. There is otherwise no cause for me to think of that place, no need for me to consider that Shana bought a tee shirt there, or the conversation with the waitress, that led to a nice tip, even on a tight budget.
For me, then, cleaning out my office is like severing parts of my brain - deleting memories. It makes me sad - but I KNOW how necessary it is! (THINK OF IT! We have cleaned my office for 20 hours and are not close to done yet! And some of this cleaning has been creating bags that STILL need sorting!) If I DON'T, then those self-same memories come up at odd times, in odd places, as I look for
whatever thing I have neglected to do THIS time...
*********************
Some time, in the next week or so, I will go back to cleaning the office, with one or two folks to help, or it won't happen... And I will make my space more manageable.
And I will make my world just that much smaller.
Josh Shaine
Because I had found it hard to attend
To anything less interesting than my
Thoughts, I was difficult to teach.
- Yeats
**********
Re: Memories (Pumpkinthought, June 8, OBOL)
“Memory” is one of the words that a dictionary will never be able to define to my satisfaction. “Something that is remembered”, indeed!
That does not capture enough of its definition. To me, memories are very important beings – they are full of emotion. Memory is what has shaped our lives, and indeed our very selves. They are wistful and longing and good and sad, all at the same time. Mostly sad, because they capture moments that have been, that will not be again. Moments that will be brought back into being briefly – by a thought, a word, an image, or another memory.
Suddenly an image will burst into full colour, and life again, until just as suddenly it will fade, and die for a time. Like the memory of hearing a voice. Like a flippant line in the middle of a conversation, when the rest of the conversation is forgotten. Like the way someone’s eyes suddenly lit up when they laughed, just this one time. Like a golden afternoon long ago, in which you learned. Like laughter in autumn leaves. And each of these memories fades and dies with time.
Pictures make an attempt to capture memories, and they succeed in part. A photograph of a house overlooking a lake can remind you of a picnic, of a duck which was a swan and a swan which was a duck. A painting can show emotion, a photograph keeps an accurate display like black and white, a video takes a copy that is exact but for the smell, and it brings back a time which you want to remember. And yet, without the story behind each picture, it is almost nothing, it is cold.
And the keepsakes, they hold such emotion. A ticket stub, a programme, a shell that you picked up as you walked with a friend. A card that made you laugh or cry the first time you saw it, and again each time thereafter. An article you kept from a newspaper. The way someone signed a receipt for you, perhaps laughing at your request to do so. A brief note thanking you for something that it never occurred to you was special. A poppy pinned to your sash, a four leaf clover from a field, a blossom from a summer’s day. A bit of ribbon that tied up an award, or a napkin with a logo, or an envelope marked with scent, or the dried remnants of a flower given by a friend. They mean a little more because they have a little more warmth.
But Words… Words capture them like nothing else can, and it is the wordsmiths like yourself that capture them in such a way as to remember some of the emotion that you pick up when you hold a card, or a ticket stub, or a receipt. It is the wordsmiths who can show others the memories they held, and make them live again, and for more than one person. It is words that endure through story, through song, through the creation of yet more memories that in time will spread, as on the wings of the birds flying south (or north) for the winter.
It is through words that memory lives again, flies again, for brief moments as we let them. And it is words that can touch the soul, so many times over. It is words that bring about the comradeship that comes with the sharing of thoughts and memories. It is words that bring on new days and thoughts and smiles to remember, that create more days to live for. It is through words that we learn and live and remember.
Thank you for sharing your words, that we may see a little of your self.
-Jacq
--> The pumpkin has thought!
**********
Re: Memories (Joshshaine, June 14, OBOL)
Jacq -
You responded to me with:
They are wistful and longing and good and sad, all at
>the same time. Mostly sad, because they capture moments that
>have been, that will not be
>again. Moments that will be brought back into being briefly –
>by a thought, a word, an image, or another memory.
Here, you and I part ways... memories are not sad, to me. Wistful, I see. Sad, I do not. For me, Memories are causes for joy - for having lived, for having felt, for having known - and knowing still.
This is why the cleaning, the parting - is so sad for me. THOSE memories will not be back again. They are old freinds, old dreams, old connections. They are part of who I am now, though I may not remember having traveled down those roads to know that THAT is how I got here.
A bit later, you scribed:
>Pictures make an attempt to capture memories, and they succeed
>in part. A photograph of a house overlooking a lake can remind
>you of a picnic, of a duck which was a swan and a swan which
>was a duck. A painting can show emotion, a photograph keeps
>an accurate display like black and white, a video takes a copy
>that is exact but for the smell, and it brings back a time
>which you want to remember. And yet, without the story behind
>each picture, it is almost nothing, it is cold.
And again, our experiences are different. Pictures DO capture memories for me, as surely as that scrap of a check from the restaurant. They BRING the emotions for me, they BRING the experiences that came with them.
Looking at the photos of others, I still can whiff the essence - and I may be wrong, but I will hear a story, nevertheless...
On words, you wrote, and well:
>But Words… Words capture them like nothing else can, and it is
>the wordsmiths like yourself that capture them in such a way
>as to remember some of the emotion that you pick up when you
>hold a card, or a ticket stub, or a receipt. It is the
>wordsmiths who can show others the memories they held, and
>make them live again, and for more than one person. It is
>words that endure through story, through song, through the
>creation of yet more memories that in time will spread, as on
>the wings of the birds flying south (or north) for the
>winter.
>
>It is through words that memory lives again, flies again, for
>brief moments as we let them. And it is words that can touch
>the soul, so many times over. It is words that bring about
>the comradeship that comes with the sharing of thoughts and
>memories. It is words that bring on new days and thoughts and
>smiles to remember, that create more days to live for. It is
>through words that we learn and live and remember.
It is odd, I guess... memories are one of the few things (along with poetry) that I do not feel I CAN write. I can recreat memories by turning them into something different that conveys the tone, the heart of it - but not the memory itself. The ticket stub, the photo, the smell - THESE are the heart of MY memory. The touch of an object, the taste on the air of the wood stove... more than any words...
And yet, I KNOW that my words are the mechanism I have to share with you. My voice is muted through this device - but my ticket stubs bring little back to you; my photos may bring you memories, but they are not MY memories.
You concluded
>Thank you for sharing your words, that we may see a little of
>your self.
That is what I have to give...
"What I'll give you since you asked, is all our time, together..."
Josh Shaine
Time it was, and what a time it was, it was
A time of innocence, a time of confidences
Long ago, it must be, I have a photograph
Preserve your memories, they're all that's left you
- Simon and Garfunkle, Bookends
Memories (posted by Joshshaine, OBOL, June 7 2003)
Memories are funny things. I find myself increasingly drawn into
discussions of memories as I get older. This is odd, to me, as the
more time goes by the less I know. Not just in perentage, which is
to be expected, but in total.
Don't get me wrong. I am not dicussing the dying of brain cells and
the progression of incipient senility.
I am talking about not knowing what happened in large swaths of ones life. I have not remembered my childhood for as long as I can remember discussing memories. THere are a ffw things that I can picture, but most of the memories I retain of childhood are in the form of stories - things that I can imagine from the OUTSIDE< but not the inside. They didn't happen to my SELF, but to some mythical Josh. They have about as much reality to me as any story told to me of somebody whom I know the looks of, in a place that I can imagine. I realize that to some of you this will evoke a "Woah... I can't imagine NOT remembering that..." while for others, it will seem as commonplace as anything.
As I said, this is NOT a new phenomenon.
But the 'more' was brought sharply to my attention earlier this week,
while we were cleaning my office. A friend of mine and I were on our
third day of doing the cleaning (remember the thread on messiness when
I accused folks of being pikers? There was a reason!) - a total of 20
hours or so. (We only have another 14 or so to go, we think!)
She pulled out a restaurant slip with no date and no information about
the place itself on it. It had the items ordered, the total, a notation of tip, and a comment about a t-shirt being bought... I glanced at it, and observed: Iowa City, May, 1991. The school was on a field trip. She looked at me, and then at the slip. And back at me. "How can you tell that from looking at this slip, like that?" Of course, my normal flip answer would have been "How can you not?" But I didn't (for a change) go for the cheap shot. I DID, on the other hand, let it go. Into the recycling/mixed paper bag it went.
A while later, she asked me, "Do you want a Thanksgiving Card from Max?"
"Max? Max WHO?!" "I don't know - it just says "Max!"
I took the card from her, read the words of thanks, and announced,
"Max Gao!" She took the card back, and found nothing. "How can you
know from looking at the same first name that I read aloud, who it is from? And she glanced to see if oerhaps there was something she had missed. But there wasn't. I explained:
"It is not in the name, nor in the writing, but in the visual of the whole card, of seeing the words he penned there. The feelings that I get reading it now, they bring back the feelings that I had then. THAT is how I know."
But there is more, then, that came from that explanation. "When I let a piece of paper, like that resaurant receipt from Iowa go, I am giving up a memory. I will not have that recollection again, without that trigger. There is otherwise no cause for me to think of that place, no need for me to consider that Shana bought a tee shirt there, or the conversation with the waitress, that led to a nice tip, even on a tight budget.
For me, then, cleaning out my office is like severing parts of my brain - deleting memories. It makes me sad - but I KNOW how necessary it is! (THINK OF IT! We have cleaned my office for 20 hours and are not close to done yet! And some of this cleaning has been creating bags that STILL need sorting!) If I DON'T, then those self-same memories come up at odd times, in odd places, as I look for
whatever thing I have neglected to do THIS time...
*********************
Some time, in the next week or so, I will go back to cleaning the office, with one or two folks to help, or it won't happen... And I will make my space more manageable.
And I will make my world just that much smaller.
Josh Shaine
Because I had found it hard to attend
To anything less interesting than my
Thoughts, I was difficult to teach.
- Yeats
**********
Re: Memories (Pumpkinthought, June 8, OBOL)
“Memory” is one of the words that a dictionary will never be able to define to my satisfaction. “Something that is remembered”, indeed!
That does not capture enough of its definition. To me, memories are very important beings – they are full of emotion. Memory is what has shaped our lives, and indeed our very selves. They are wistful and longing and good and sad, all at the same time. Mostly sad, because they capture moments that have been, that will not be again. Moments that will be brought back into being briefly – by a thought, a word, an image, or another memory.
Suddenly an image will burst into full colour, and life again, until just as suddenly it will fade, and die for a time. Like the memory of hearing a voice. Like a flippant line in the middle of a conversation, when the rest of the conversation is forgotten. Like the way someone’s eyes suddenly lit up when they laughed, just this one time. Like a golden afternoon long ago, in which you learned. Like laughter in autumn leaves. And each of these memories fades and dies with time.
Pictures make an attempt to capture memories, and they succeed in part. A photograph of a house overlooking a lake can remind you of a picnic, of a duck which was a swan and a swan which was a duck. A painting can show emotion, a photograph keeps an accurate display like black and white, a video takes a copy that is exact but for the smell, and it brings back a time which you want to remember. And yet, without the story behind each picture, it is almost nothing, it is cold.
And the keepsakes, they hold such emotion. A ticket stub, a programme, a shell that you picked up as you walked with a friend. A card that made you laugh or cry the first time you saw it, and again each time thereafter. An article you kept from a newspaper. The way someone signed a receipt for you, perhaps laughing at your request to do so. A brief note thanking you for something that it never occurred to you was special. A poppy pinned to your sash, a four leaf clover from a field, a blossom from a summer’s day. A bit of ribbon that tied up an award, or a napkin with a logo, or an envelope marked with scent, or the dried remnants of a flower given by a friend. They mean a little more because they have a little more warmth.
But Words… Words capture them like nothing else can, and it is the wordsmiths like yourself that capture them in such a way as to remember some of the emotion that you pick up when you hold a card, or a ticket stub, or a receipt. It is the wordsmiths who can show others the memories they held, and make them live again, and for more than one person. It is words that endure through story, through song, through the creation of yet more memories that in time will spread, as on the wings of the birds flying south (or north) for the winter.
It is through words that memory lives again, flies again, for brief moments as we let them. And it is words that can touch the soul, so many times over. It is words that bring about the comradeship that comes with the sharing of thoughts and memories. It is words that bring on new days and thoughts and smiles to remember, that create more days to live for. It is through words that we learn and live and remember.
Thank you for sharing your words, that we may see a little of your self.
-Jacq
--> The pumpkin has thought!
**********
Re: Memories (Joshshaine, June 14, OBOL)
Jacq -
You responded to me with:
They are wistful and longing and good and sad, all at
>the same time. Mostly sad, because they capture moments that
>have been, that will not be
>again. Moments that will be brought back into being briefly –
>by a thought, a word, an image, or another memory.
Here, you and I part ways... memories are not sad, to me. Wistful, I see. Sad, I do not. For me, Memories are causes for joy - for having lived, for having felt, for having known - and knowing still.
This is why the cleaning, the parting - is so sad for me. THOSE memories will not be back again. They are old freinds, old dreams, old connections. They are part of who I am now, though I may not remember having traveled down those roads to know that THAT is how I got here.
A bit later, you scribed:
>Pictures make an attempt to capture memories, and they succeed
>in part. A photograph of a house overlooking a lake can remind
>you of a picnic, of a duck which was a swan and a swan which
>was a duck. A painting can show emotion, a photograph keeps
>an accurate display like black and white, a video takes a copy
>that is exact but for the smell, and it brings back a time
>which you want to remember. And yet, without the story behind
>each picture, it is almost nothing, it is cold.
And again, our experiences are different. Pictures DO capture memories for me, as surely as that scrap of a check from the restaurant. They BRING the emotions for me, they BRING the experiences that came with them.
Looking at the photos of others, I still can whiff the essence - and I may be wrong, but I will hear a story, nevertheless...
On words, you wrote, and well:
>But Words… Words capture them like nothing else can, and it is
>the wordsmiths like yourself that capture them in such a way
>as to remember some of the emotion that you pick up when you
>hold a card, or a ticket stub, or a receipt. It is the
>wordsmiths who can show others the memories they held, and
>make them live again, and for more than one person. It is
>words that endure through story, through song, through the
>creation of yet more memories that in time will spread, as on
>the wings of the birds flying south (or north) for the
>winter.
>
>It is through words that memory lives again, flies again, for
>brief moments as we let them. And it is words that can touch
>the soul, so many times over. It is words that bring about
>the comradeship that comes with the sharing of thoughts and
>memories. It is words that bring on new days and thoughts and
>smiles to remember, that create more days to live for. It is
>through words that we learn and live and remember.
It is odd, I guess... memories are one of the few things (along with poetry) that I do not feel I CAN write. I can recreat memories by turning them into something different that conveys the tone, the heart of it - but not the memory itself. The ticket stub, the photo, the smell - THESE are the heart of MY memory. The touch of an object, the taste on the air of the wood stove... more than any words...
And yet, I KNOW that my words are the mechanism I have to share with you. My voice is muted through this device - but my ticket stubs bring little back to you; my photos may bring you memories, but they are not MY memories.
You concluded
>Thank you for sharing your words, that we may see a little of
>your self.
That is what I have to give...
"What I'll give you since you asked, is all our time, together..."
Josh Shaine
Time it was, and what a time it was, it was
A time of innocence, a time of confidences
Long ago, it must be, I have a photograph
Preserve your memories, they're all that's left you
- Simon and Garfunkle, Bookends
