Memory Lanes
Beginnings and endings
When I was 7 or 8 and bored by the routine of my primary school, one of many precocious questions I had was: can you remember forever absolutely any moment you choose? Could the dullest, most ordinary moment be plucked out of your stream of experience and venerated - a shiny gold memory to return to eternally? Could you, at any point in your life, even the very last, return to this moment at will? I decided to try and find out.
The moment I chose was in assembly, sitting cross legged in rows of children, identically dressed in grey pinafores or trousers, white polo shirts and maroon cardigans. Rows of children on a cold, lacquered parquet floor between the peeling white lines of an indoor football pitch, the towering ropes and bars of gym apparatus flat against the wall.
I am sitting two rows back, beside an ancient over-head projector, fan whirring gently, the bright bulb illuminating the acetate and its purple cursive font. The ever-so-slightly out of focus words to ‘Shine, Jesus, Shine!’ are large on the blank wall above the low stage. Mr Matthews, full beard, floppy fringe and large clear framed glasses, is on tip-toe in his black loafers. His right arm is aloft, left arm in front of him, both fists clenched. He is poised, open-mouthed, as though startled in mid-air, waiting for Miss Fair on piano to reach the chord when we all join in.
And that was it, the snapshot that I have returned to ever since. For thirty three years, on and off. Staring out of train windows, right before job interviews, in supermarket queues. Even in the midst of altered states. That memory has been conjured, breathed on and buffed so many times that it has its own shiny neural pathway that connects the me I was then to the me I am now. A golden snake slithering through time.
Except that metaphor creates a much too linear idea of experience. In reality, each time I remember the memory a new memory is created, which replaces the original memory in the giant filing cabinet of my mind. Even a filing cabinet as a metaphor implies more structure to thought, memory and the workings of the brain than is perhaps warranted, similar to the computer metaphor which has been rejected by many neuroscientists. In my work with trauma therapists, a filing cabinet or wardrobe metaphor can be useful when explaining the function of therapies like trauma focused CBT that process troubling and intrusive traumatic memories so they become more manageable, like regular memories. This memory of mine feels more like a thought experiment. It doesn’t fold as neatly as regular long term memories. Its the mirror on the back of the wardrobe door.
There are some things we never forget because they change the world as we know it, like a cold hard stomach punch of being told someone you love has died or the hot exhilarating rush of realising you have pulled yourself back from the speeding path of a vehicle just in time. Life and death stuff. There are some things we never forget because we stubbornly decide not to one day in assembly. I wonder about how well my brains functions will hold up throughout my life so I can attempt to bring this memory to mind as my last minutes draw near.
Sitting here on the comfortably worn sofa of early middle age, my own death still feels largely abstract and of course there is no way of knowing how soon I will be slipping through the veil. I like to imagine, as perhaps we all might, my body, old, small and well used in a soft bed surrounded by loved ones, some of whom may not even exist yet. The beatific autumn light streaming through the window as my last rattling breath is witnessed. A hushed reverence filling the room, nothing left unsaid and love, endless love surrounding us.
A beautiful fairy tale ending, retaining all the religious overtones I have largely rejected throughout my life but were evidently instilled in me as a child, especially in assembly. Of course I want there to be love. But in that moment love might mean someone ducking out the room to take a call about a 7 or 8 year old daughter needing to be picked up from school. Perhaps I’m physically alone as my body crosses the threshold from life into non-life. But somewhere within, a golden snake is shedding its final skin and I’m inhaling the dust motes of a gym hall morning, taking a deep breath, ready to sing.