A memory isn't a simple concept. You don't remember being happy just once; you have multitudes of memories of being happy and multitudes of memories of sadness and longing, some more keen than others. But they're all different. The capacity to create memories is bounded by our own doing, by our own receptiveness to the possibility. Every moment could be a memory, if there was something extraordinary in every moment. But in this life, by necessity, every moment isn't extraordinary, and thus, memories, born out of extraordinary moments become extraordinary themselves.
At what age do we begin to doubt our own memories, so that we need tangible reminders of them? Is it sad that we do so? Nothing could be so amazing as the event from which the memory was born. Nothing could be so real, so poignant, so true than that moment in which it happens - not for that one memory. It's a simple fact that the one moment (or moments, as the case may be) can never be duplicated.
But that moment, that one singular moment, that memory slips away because the ability to remember, itself, slips away. We forget the amazing. The place, the people, the smells, the sights, the light, the sound, the feeling and the time - oh, the feeling and the time. No, everything else could be recreated with a bit of particular planning. But it would be different - because the feeling and the time's different. The recreation, for the purpose of duplicating the circumstances surrounding that memory, is a sad stand-in for the real thing.
Never has a cherished memory been remembered than has also been remembered it's twin: the erstwhile longing that it simply could not happen again. Perhaps the pain and resignation of knowing that accompany that memory. And sometimes, we allow the negative part of the memory overcome the positive. And sometimes, we don't.
But what of the mementos that we keep? Are they a sad stand-in for the real thing? No, but what makes them anything but a sad substitute? It is because we attach the memory of that feeling, that extraordinary moment, to that memento.
The memories are a part of who we are; the mementos a tangible piece of our past, our history, the most significant events that shaped our lives - at least the ones we want to remember. Forgetting a memory, then, would be much like forgetting our past. Forgetting our past only bodes that we'd soon enough forget ourselves, too.
So, I have my mementos. Everyone does, be it as simple as a half-dollar or a box of photos or ticket stubs or videos or locks of hair . . .
At what age do we begin to doubt our own memories, so that we need tangible reminders of them? Is it sad that we do so? Nothing could be so amazing as the event from which the memory was born. Nothing could be so real, so poignant, so true than that moment in which it happens - not for that one memory. It's a simple fact that the one moment (or moments, as the case may be) can never be duplicated.
But that moment, that one singular moment, that memory slips away because the ability to remember, itself, slips away. We forget the amazing. The place, the people, the smells, the sights, the light, the sound, the feeling and the time - oh, the feeling and the time. No, everything else could be recreated with a bit of particular planning. But it would be different - because the feeling and the time's different. The recreation, for the purpose of duplicating the circumstances surrounding that memory, is a sad stand-in for the real thing.
Never has a cherished memory been remembered than has also been remembered it's twin: the erstwhile longing that it simply could not happen again. Perhaps the pain and resignation of knowing that accompany that memory. And sometimes, we allow the negative part of the memory overcome the positive. And sometimes, we don't.
But what of the mementos that we keep? Are they a sad stand-in for the real thing? No, but what makes them anything but a sad substitute? It is because we attach the memory of that feeling, that extraordinary moment, to that memento.
The memories are a part of who we are; the mementos a tangible piece of our past, our history, the most significant events that shaped our lives - at least the ones we want to remember. Forgetting a memory, then, would be much like forgetting our past. Forgetting our past only bodes that we'd soon enough forget ourselves, too.
So, I have my mementos. Everyone does, be it as simple as a half-dollar or a box of photos or ticket stubs or videos or locks of hair . . .
"It's an old box I put away
with memories of other days.
Up in the attic it will stay
Till they haul it all away.
Oooh, no sad farewells
I'll just keep it on the shelf.
An old box, but don't you see
It still means a lot to me.
I don't know exactly why
But losing them would make me cry
Just an old box of memories
They really mean a lot to me."
- Selection from An Old Box of Memories, Pete Wernick (or here)
with memories of other days.
Up in the attic it will stay
Till they haul it all away.
Oooh, no sad farewells
I'll just keep it on the shelf.
An old box, but don't you see
It still means a lot to me.
I don't know exactly why
But losing them would make me cry
Just an old box of memories
They really mean a lot to me."
- Selection from An Old Box of Memories, Pete Wernick (or here)
**Thanks to my dear Deb for noting this quote in some of her writing and for finding the quote that's so fabulous that I had to find out more about this guy. He plays Merlefest, to which I have to go one of these years, since I'm just an hour east. He played with Phish in November 1997 at McNichols Arena in Denver, when Phish was still touring. (Yes, I did go see Phish once . . . Jess can tell that story.)
