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The creation of memory is one of those life
mysteries. Why does the mind-body register some
sounds, words, images as internal data, while other
material is simply washed away? Perhaps inside us
there is a part of personality that, like a scribe,
records what our inner world finds meaningful. Perhaps
the scribe makes mistakes as data is recorded; forgetting
to erase what is useless information and erasing
that which is needed and over attending to the unusual
and traumatic.
Today at an art show a woman came to my booth.
Amongst my art was a photograph of a cactus flower.
I had never been to a desert until this summer.
I stored in my memory images of the desert in bloom.
My picture astonished the woman at the art show.
She had spent years in Arizona and had never had
seen a desert flower. Her memory of the desert was
different from mine. Her image was of barren plants,
mine of waxy blossoms atop tall green cacti. She
had stopped by with her memories, witnessed mine
and there was a moment of connection between us.
Her memories enhanced my experience of the desert
as much as my photographs delighted her.
In a writing class a woman wrote these words "It
is you who taught me what the color of green grass
tastes like." For some reason that line resonated
deep within. I reminded the writer once of the sentence
she had long ago crafted and she had completely
forgotten it; nor did she have an idea of what it
meant. She gave me the gift of the green grass sentence
to keep as my own. Funny that she wrote it and forgot.
I heard it and remembered. Within the synapses of
my brain the sentence sits in the midst of the maze
of information stored away and triggered each time
I write. My inner scribe looks for a space for the
green grass sentence as if it is an important lost
piece of a puzzle.
I am amazed by the creative mind, which dreams
and keeps its treasures hidden within. I cannot
remember for the life of me the number for my ATM
card but I can remember my grandmother's phone number
in 1949: 2305R. The number carefully stored in my
memory as if someday I may need to call my grandmother
again.
One girl wrote a rhyme in my Junior High School
autograph book
"When you get old and drink tea
Burn your lip and think of me"
Here I am now old and drinking tea. I still remember
the blond haired girl who wrote her name in my book.
We sat together on the lawn of our school. I remember
her sparkling eyes, her rhyme, the warmth of that
June day. I even remember the yellow organdy dress
I wore, but her name, for some reason, has been
forever erased.
I have a memory, held inside me like a vivid photograph,
of an old woman in a purple hat, a long feather
and a juicy smile. A stranger, leaving for Mexico
on a train. She told me she was 93. Amazed by her
zest for life, I never forgot her. She handed me
a book of poetry that continues to sit on a shelf.
A gift given by a stranger in a passing moment which
now represents an old woman's appetite for life.
My dad made pancakes on Sunday mornings. I remember
the warm sweet smell amidst his clanking of pans.
I think I was 12. I knew he would die someday and
I would want to remember him making pancakes and
happily humming a medley of tunes. I deliberately
filed away this self-selected memory which I can
recall when I want to remember my dad.
The old man down the block, Joe was his name, smoked
an old stogy, chewing on it until it was wet and
hanging on the corner of his mouth. Every once in
a while he would spit out slimy brown liquid. "Disgusting!"
I thought and yet I never forgot. Each time I small
cigar smoke I remember Joe. For what reason would
I remember the man down the block with his digusting
habit? Who knows?
"Never forget this moment," I said to
myself, as a man with velvety soft lips kissed me
for the first time. He kissed me in a way that no
other man ever had or will again. I remember his
gaze and the words he never spoke. I still remember
what I believed lived inside his heart. When I close
my eyes I can feel his kiss. The memory serves no
useful purpose other than to leave me longing. I
told myself to forget another man who roughly stole
kisses I did not want to give. The inner scribe
wrote down both memories giving them equal punctuation
and importance, bringing them to my attention in
random order.
Memories create an internal map. They piece together
history: some held as nightmares, others as sights,
smells, sounds. Some memories intrude upon life
in the middle of the night. They come as visitors,
persistent and unwelcome. Some are creations of
the unconscious while others are as real and fresh
as yesterday. Many are stories that we written with
unconscious effort to make inner meaning from external
events.
As I grow old I am determined to remember beauty,
warm touches, lovely sunsets, my friend's laughter,
the smiles of children and the taste of rich green
grass. Yet, I know the truth; some images will be
self selected, others will be the persistent, intrusive
inner guests. Some will be as rich as that velvety
kiss, or as strong as the smell of old Joe's cigar.
All will become a piece of the fabric of my inner
world coming forth from body/mind in dreams, poetry,
snippets and images.
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