Memory revisited

Image: Alex Dukhanov

John died over eight years ago, but listening to REM brought him back to life last week. I leaked like an old faucet hearing his voice. I remember the specific details of Megan’s, Athena’s, and Ian’s birth days vividly, along with foods we ate, midwives’ names and times of day. As well, I can walk through the memories of first taking LSD, sleeping with two friends at once, and nearly drowning in the Truckee River. And a hundred other scenes from a life lived.

But sadly, I don’t recall the dates, or even the years, my parents died, and it wasn’t that long ago. I can watch a film then watch it again a month later and have no recollection. I have 43 first cousins and can reliably name 38 of them, in order, but the other five I’ve no clue. I know what time Bonanza, Laugh-In, Ed Sullivan and the Smothers Brothers were on TV fifty to sixty years ago. I take six or seven meds for heart conditions and can name half of them, but I can only tell you what one of them does.

So, what is this selective mnemonic behavior about? As an amateur writer who floats about in the shadows, I freed myself from historical accuracy, seeing the factual record merely as a suggestion of destination, with fanciful side trips welcomed, true or not. Or is that just an elaborate rationalization for declining cognitive acuity? My Mom succumbed to Alzheimer’s, after all. Am I marked? Do I get a pass because unaided, I can name the second great Miles Davis Quintet and their dates, five of the 1964 New York Yankees, the past presidents and their term dates since Truman, and where Joan Didion went to college?  Likely not. Marked I still may be.

Another handy hole card I play is the notion that, having held executive positions in a number of commercial endeavors, I trained myself to discard the informational chaff and detritus in favor of, what, Ron Carter? Whitey Ford? Bush the Lesser? Cal Berkeley? Only carry what you need. But that is a leaky premise. We work with Elder Lakota friends, and just an hour ago, talking with a colleague, I forgot “Pine Ridge”. I need that and I want to carry it. Where’d it go?

In another mood I might ask myself, “Is memory necessary?” What purpose does it serve beyond the practical “Where’s my car, or my cat?” Aldous Huxley is said to have regularly exclaimed “Extraordinary!” as if he were gob smacked by everything, all the time. (Be sure to lean into your best Oxford accent when you repeat his expression.) This may have been the mescaline talking.

Too much memory can lead to assumptions, boredom, over-familiarity, and stereotyping my experiences. I favor the path of being surprised and astounded. Perhaps a balance here is appropriate, so I know where my cat is. Wait, I don’t have a cat. We did have a cat, Cosmo, who was more of the Huxley ilk. Our narrative about Cosmo described him rising each morning having forgotten everything, spending each day delightfully mind-blown by what was mundanely familiar to his brother, Rico. Cosmo was happy. Rico was a bit weary.

I wonder if my fretting over memories, both lost and cherished, is a kind of clinging, or an acquisitiveness, or greed. Is it fear of death? Am I in competition with other geriatrics to make sure I come in last in the Mind Like a Steel Sieve contest? I want to be the guy who remembers our dinner reservation is at six and roughly what part of town the restaurant is located.

Our term “nostalgia” combines the Greek nostos, or home, with algos, pain. Somewhere more recently we get to “homesickness”, or in modern usage, sentimental longing or wistful feelings for the past. I feel blessed to have a lifetime’s trunkful of tales to tell, truthfully or not, but I honestly don’t long for those “good old days”. There were great parts. There were disasters. And there were events I should not have survived. I am happy those memories are in the trunk, but I surely don’t want to repeat or relive them.

I am most happy with today. I wouldn’t change a thing, and I appreciate every ache and pain. Today is a good day. Now where’s my damned car?

Master Unmon said, “About the fifteen days before, I do not ask you. Now that fifteen days have passed, come, say something.”

Nobody answered.

Unmon himself said, “Every day is a good day.”