Tuesday, November 22, 2005

New Lint in Old Navels

Memories are silly. An event rehashed verbally becomes little more than anecdote eventually, the story, molded again and again, pieces added bit by bit like globs of clay, replaces the experience, creating it's own form of art. The experience itself, in the larger scheme of things, becomes minimalized. Each event is an acid test; it either helps support a beforeheld opinion reassuringly, or it does the complete opposite and reverses our taste about something. From here we progress, making future decisions which are tied to that particular event linearally. In its most basic form, each random causal event creates a scenario which is as simple as, yet simultaneously as incredibly significant as, the minor decision as to whether to take the right or left fork in the road. Our perception of reality based on said event will determine our live's outcome. So obviously, our present is invariably decided by interpretation of past events which individually have come to play a part in our future (as it becomes present). Yet, paradoxically, the memory of past events (which created this present moment of reflection), can in turn hinder the progression toward the future. The longing for something lost long ago muddles the decision-making process. When is it that we learn something? It's when an event enters our realm which deviates somewhat from the existing program. But what about the little details? Why is it that we remember certain things in our lives and forget about others? And why is it easy for our friends to remember those events that ourselves cannot? Conscious memory is a funny thing; it acts as the rudder to the ship of our active decision-making, yet it is the subconscious memory which is the tide and the wind. Memory exists where we changed course...


On the turntable: Putumayo Calypso
On the nightable: Michael Cunningham, "Speciman Days"

1 comment:

kurt said...

Read your post and wondering what happened to inspire this kind of meditation on, well, in some very basic way, meditation. Because isn't it odd that buddhism's goal is to disconnect the rudder, to set the sails and let the shape and nature of the boat provide the stability in the wind, rather than the host of associations one has developed over the years, to thereby disable what you call the desire for future from controlling our interpretation of reality? And if that is the case, our struggle with this detaching is an attack on the very nature of memory, or at least a traditional understanding of memory, transforming it from a shaping experience into mere experience. Maybe . . . .