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Defective Memory Machine

Wednesday Dec 8, 2004

I must record everything these days because I have gaping holes in my memory. Vonnegut would say that I’m a defective memory machine. Others would suggest that my turbulent past has made me want to forget and has flawed my memory in such a way that I can pick and choose what I keep in there. Either way these holes loom ominously, they loom large, they can’t be prevented, so alas I record all the ideas I can to at worst make a digital memory in its place.

Ah but then I find the opposite becomes true. Memories so vivid that I don’t want and yet seemingly cannot clear away from my mind. When will her taste go away?

I’m on a journey, an adventure, I’m wandering, I’m feeling free. And then something as simple as Victory Boulevard can spring her back to life, to memory. She hasn’t been here all day, she hasn’t been here in weeks, and now I find her – on my mind.

And I miss her. I miss her taste. I miss her touch. I miss her company. I miss her promise.

But I don’t really miss her. She is replaceable. There will be others after her, who I will probably miss, who will probably be replaced after that. But a street name, a sandwich, a restaurant. Why does this bring her back to life so quickly, so easily, and so real.

Like the corners of my mind… Fucking memory.