I had a conversation with a writer friend recently. We talked about memories from childhood. Hers are as clear as crystal, and encyclopedic in their scope, beginning as early as when she was eighteen months old. Mine are, mostly, rare and dusty relics dredged up from muddy memories that may have been modified through the intervention of time and tales told by other people.
Why, I wonder, do some minds capture and record moments with such precision, while others collect them like smeared photocopies buried under layers of dirt and wet leaves? It occurs to me that murky memories may hide unhappy experiences or emotions. Is that why my recollections of growing up are so sparse and so indistinct?
More likely, as I ponder the issue, brains operate differently from one person to the next. My memories of childhood and the years thereafter are consistently blurred or absent; I can scarcely recall events of adulthood, even momentous occasions. My friend generously suggested I think so much that my creativity crowds out older thoughts. I think the likelihood is just as great that my brain simply doesn’t have as much capacity as hers.
I wrote two poems this morning before I began to write this post. I barely remember what I wrote and why. Ah, I do recall a piece of one of them:
I watch the precursor to dawn climb like a cat from behind the mountain ridge, stalking morning with the patience of cold marble watching over a grave.
I won’t remember it in twenty minutes. Computer memory and paper are wonderful tools for those of us who think through mud.
Are you saying I’m not, poeta hermosa? 😉
Remember. She’s a writer. They often get memories mixed in with imagination. 😉