Photographic Memories

“Then my father died,” she said, “and I got all the family photos. No one else wanted them. There must be thousands tossed into this banker’s box, no order at all, a complete mess. I’ve tried to organize them but I can’t. The minute I start to sort they draw me in, these old snapshots and slides, and they won’t let go. I stare myself into them, feeling long-dormant memories awaken as they transport me back in time. Then hours later I snap out of my reverie, my lap covered with old photos. I toss them back into the box – which just makes the mess worse – and I vow to organize them next time. Of course, that’ll never happen, I’ll just lose myself in them again.”

“I avoid old photos.”

“Why? They’re so comforting, my link to the past, they’re all I have to remind me of better times, sepia-toned times, as it were, but mine are fading Kodachromes. Times I never want to forget again, that I want to hold on to forever. Why would you avoid that? Are you trying to forget your past?”

“I’m not trying, but I am forgetting. And somehow that seems right. It’s been years like this and by now it’s like I’ve got this organic mind, free of artificial memories. It remembers only what it wants to remember. The rest it forgets. I don’t try to manipulate my memory by jogging it or force-feeding it with old photos, or scolding it for forgetting, or training it to remember. I just let it run on auto-pilot. I figure it has its own reasons – good reasons, I’m sure – to remember what it remembers and to forget what it forgets. It absorbs as memories whatever nutrients it needs from my current experiences, and excretes the rest, just like it does with food and drink.”

“But that’s so, you know, don’t take this the wrong way or anything, but that seems really strange to me. You’re just denying your past.”

“But you’re denying your present while you sit there staring at your old photos, aren’t you? The past is gone. Isn’t it healthier to just live in the present?”

“I do live in the present, I’m not denying it, I just miss my past. It’s a part of me too, but I forget it and I hate that so I want to hold on to it. Especially now.”

“And I’m not really denying my past, I’m just allowing my brain to filter it as it pleases to suit its own purposes. I do remember, it’s just that what I remember might be more selective and distorted and deluded than what you remember after forcing your brain to relive your past by feeding it old photos. Or maybe our memories are the same, maybe all your reminiscing doesn’t keep you from forgetting, and all my neglecting doesn’t keep me from remembering. I don’t know, but I wonder whether a muddled memory is all we’re really capable of, and maybe there’s a good reason for the muddle, you know, it’s a defensive mechanism or something like that.”

“Defensive? Against what?”

“I’m just guessing here, but I’d say it’s a defense against useless clutter clogging up our minds, clutter that makes it hard to live in the moment. And forgetting is a powerful antidote to nostalgia, or at least I hope it will be, because my god isn’t nostalgia pathetic? Patina worship. Get a grip, people. It’s later than you think.”

“You’re cruel.”

“Seriously, though, forgetting, or organically selective distorted remembering, as I think of it, is the ultimate healer. It heals wounds without even the hint of a scar. Where did I cut myself? I can’t tell anymore. Did I cut myself? I can’t remember. Why would I want to? The wound is gone, so it must have healed. Let’s forget it and move on. In this way, I’ve healed myself more often than I can remember by simply forgiving and forgetting. And when I can’t forgive, I just forget.”

“So?”

“So the mental healing process happens naturally, if you let it. Your mind on auto-pilot routinely cleans its wounds by purging pernicious memories. But when you intervene and interfere, when you cling to memories that should be purged, you risk breaking down the mind’s defenses, preventing it from healing. In our family, we had The Historian. She remembered everything, never forgot her slights, regurgitating and replaying them everyday as if they happened yesterday. She wouldn’t forget, or perhaps she couldn’t forget, I don’t know which, but I do know that her wounds never healed. They festered, and her toxic memory build-up just corroded her whole outlook on life. It was so sad. She was so unhappy.”

“Okay, but then why are you always so unhappy, Mr. Organic Brain?”

“You’re cruel.”

“Seriously, why aren't you happier?”

“Why? I can’t remember.”