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The process of remembering is not linear. |
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Dear Reader, Thank you for stepping into the funhouse that is memory. This 'novella'/essay is about my undersanding of memory; why we remember, how we remember and shaping memories through retrospection. |
| That day, my dad had seen Horatio the Crab. It had been raining cats and dogs and poor Horatio was standing on the sidewalk/pavement with a tiny umbrella looking for someone to give him a ride. My dad pulled to the side of the road and leaned over to open the passenger door. "How splendid to see you, Willem, it has been too long! How is the family? Are the kids enjoying school? How is Celeste?" he asked with emphasis. My dad was not one for small talk but, for our sake, he embellished. "Horatio! Get out of the rain, my friend, you'll get washed away!" Horatio climbed into the passenger seat of my dad's old, inherited VW Passat. He closed his umbrella and shook the water off without much success. My dad reached passed him from the driver's seat and pulled the door shut. Horatio again asked after the family and my dad explained how each of us was doing. Then my dad asked after his family. I remember that he had kids, several kids it seemed but now I forget exactly how many. There were girls and boys to satisfy each of our needs for camaraderie in the tale and of course, there was a Mrs. My dad never seemed very interested in exploring the story of Mrs. Horatio, as he called her. Perhaps crabs don't have surnames, what did I know? Horatio had told my dad that day that he had gotten a new job. He was very excited. They had found a beautiful house to live in. Things were looking up for them. It was an encouraging story to hear... that things could look up. My dad took Horatio to the mall, he wanted to buy stationary for the kiddie crabs who would be starting school soon. That was enough for tonight; perhaps dad would see Horatio around town tomorrow and have some new exciting story to relay, but for tonight, it that was the end. The flat was small and kissing us each good night was a simple up and down between the bunks. He switched off the light and pulled the door almost shut. We fell happily into sleep. *** Sometimes I wonder what ever happened to Horatio and the crabs. *** It was very seldom, in those days, that my dad and I spent time together. My mom claimed that we were too similar, bull headed, and so we locked horns constantly. But that day was different. He had asked, or offered, I don't remember the details, me to join him on site for a job. He was into signage at that stage. It was sometime after the carpentry stage and a little before the used cars sales stage. I forget why I was interested in going along, it was a Saturday after all and I had swimming to do. Nevertheless, there I was, learning how to apply vinyl signage to a Perspex board using sunlight soap and a squeegee. It was exciting, the vinyl had to be positioned perfectly and then the board had to be fitted into the light box. It was like building a puzzle. We were at a mall on the South Coast, Shelly Beach. 'Toti is by all definitions a small town, but in comparison with Shelly Beach, it seemed like a metropolis. My granddad had a holiday house there, I remember one of the best family vacations at that house, but that is for another time. My dad and I had bonded. My brother had not been there to take his attention, it was just me. I felt like a grateful sheepdog, wagging its tail and hoping for another scratch on the head. On the drive home I was very tired. I couldn't imagine doing that everyday, but my dad was the eternal entrepreneur. He saw a money-making opportunity in everything and this was the latest path down which he sought success. We arrived home as the evening was approaching. My uncle had been on his way from Gauteng and we were (a tense sort of) excited about seeing him. As we drove down the long and steep drive-way, I knew something was wrong. His car was stopped half way and my mother was waiting next to it for us to arrive. My heart dropped. "Kiks, there's been an accident. She just jumped in the way. I'm sorry." *** |
| People say that 'hindsight is 20/20'. Perhaps it is in a philosophical way it is, but practically, I disagree. Looking back is always through a glass darkly (cite). Memories are shut away as soon as they are made, out of reach, kept under lock and key. The best we can hope for is that the door has a keyhole through which we can see, at least a tiny fragment of our past being replayed constantly. The peephole is never strategically located, I've found. It's always too low and off to one side, as though I was trying to hide from whatever was happening. So, instead of faces and places, all I can see in my memories are ankles and walls. I see the dogs too, they are always in view, a sight for sore eyes. Memory is more than just sight though, the muffled words sound like a foreign language, although I know exactly what they are saying. Words are not like rentals, you can't ever take them back. Once they leave a person's mouth, they stop belonging to that person and become the property of whoever is within earshot. Words do not need to be remembered. I own them, all of them, every word ever said to me. They are mine. Words are constant. I remember being about 14 years old, riddle with zits and hollow inside. I would sit at the door to the memory when I was 6; full of promise and innocence. I was swimming, it was summer, seemed it was always summer. My sixth year was to date my favourite. I forget why now, but it is still my favourite, except I'm now two doors away, looking at 14 year old me, looking at 6 year old me and trying to remember what the water felt like. The memory behind the door is moving constantly, even when I'm not looking through the peephole. The music stays the same but the dance seems to change ever so slightly over time. This is why hindsight cannot ever be 20/20. *** |
| The 4th of January is imbued with high expectations and the heaviness of frequent disappointments. It is my birthday. As a kid, birthdays were more 'miss' than 'hit' but this one... was a hit! The summer was hot and languid. We floated around in the swimming pool all day and slept on lilos in the lounge, not wanting to loose the feeling of being suspended, weightless. Christmas had come and gone with the usual stress and unfulfillment, we got presents for sure, but that is not all a young heart needs to feel full. On it's heels was New Year's. The clean slate that we wait for all year long. I watched from the corner of the room while my mom and dad packed their baggage and carried it over the threshold into the future. The bags held various truths and many more fabrications; memories that were true by perception only; he said, she said and that tone of voice. I was learning to pack my own bag of memories. It had been years since my dad had told us of his adventures with Horatio but the mythical bedtime story still filled my memory bag. So I woke on January 4th to pelting rain and sweltering heat. Immediately I thought of Horatio and wondered if he was out in the streets getting washed away by the downpour. Unlikely. There'd be no swimming today, I pouted; just my luck! Footsteps scuffed on the passage floor and I quickly pretended to be asleep. My mom snuck into the room with my dad and brother in tow. I peeped through my eyelids and saw that she was carrying a tiny handful of white fluff. My eyes shot open and she squealed with delight; "Happy birthday, my 'ling!" The bundle in her hands riggled and peered two tiny black eyes at me. "A puppy?!" I shouted with abandon. "She's your birthday present." My mom placed the ball of fur in my hands. My dad got down to business; kiss on the forehead and then; "What are you going to call her?" My brother had paid his dues and retreated from my pink haven. The puppy squirmed and nuzzled in my hands. She was so soft and warm, I never wanted to let her go. That evening, there was still no name so my dad began offering suggestions. Eventually we settled on 'Sherry'. He thought it was hilarious to name animals after different alcoholic drinks. Perhaps I should have been "Ginger Square"; my mom's favourite drink when they first 'met'. Sherry and I became inseparable. The dog slept in my bed and pined for me all day when I was at school. She swam with me and kept me company when I hid in the cupboard to drown out the world. I had the pleasure of her company for 5 wonderful years. Each year or so she'd have a litter of puppies. Invariably she'd start whimpering in the middle of the night and curl up in my cupboard to escape the agony of labour. The house would be steeped in the silence of midnight. She and I would battle the curse of nature to bring sweet and redeeming life into this world. I'd rub her back and help ease each little sack of puppy out as it came. The puppies would transform from hairless pink rats to fluffy heart-stealers in just a few days. After 6 weeks we'd start advertising 'life long companions for sale'... No-one can pass up on that promise! Within days the mini-Sherrys would all be gone and it would be back to me and her for a little while. In the weeks before my uncle came to visit, Sherry began sleeping in my cupboard. The dark, private space was our escape from reality. Only now I see that she was trying to hide from her fate. 'Life long' was an empty promise but I wouldn't give her memories back, not for all the 'hits' in the world. *** Baby Simba was hoisted above the animal kingdom to the words 'It's the circle of life'. If the animals get it, why do we insist that time is linear? As though we are going somewhere... As though the outcome can be different from the life that was before. |
| "Kodak Moments", remember those? When you'd buy spools of memory canvases and carefully plan how you'd use each one. The canvases were expensive and fragile, too much light and the artwork was damaged, too little and it was all shadows. Heavan forbid you accidently release the spool cover and expose the entire film! I remember the day I started school. My mom played doll and dressed me up. I was shiny and new with a pretty white bow in my hair. At just 5 years old the gaps between my teeth were adorable. I stood at the top of the stairs and posed until a whole spool had been spilt. I was anxious. Perhaps I don't actually remember this day, perhaps it is the photographic proof of its occurrence that makes me 'remember'. I was 5 years old after all. Family gatherings were punctuated with a pause and "Everybody say 'cheese'"... "CHEESE". Weeks would go by and then you'd remember the undeveloped spool, but of what? Mom's birthday? No, that was 3 months back, the time Aunty Joan came to visit from overseas? Well, let's get them developed and see what they hold. "You can pick 'em up in an hour ma'am." We'd idle around the mall for an hour, eagerly anticipating proof of our joy and beauty, fearing double chins and pimples. When I held the envelope of snapshots in my hand it was like receiving a present; the potential was agonising. The picture on top was of a hand, blurry and obscured by a very bright sky behind it. 'Nice one, dad.' The second was of Sherry, of course; sleeping innocently on the couch with her legs against the back rest. Then there was dad the day Aunty Joan arrived, big eyed, caught off guard with a beer in his hand as he exited the kitchen. He hated being photographed and would never smile with the lens zoomed in his direction. I remember him in this way, grumpy, obstinate. But perhaps it's not the whole truth. The next few photo's are of me and my visiting cousins. We're gripping each other's shoulders and grinning as wide as our young faces could. My dad is standing in profile at the back of the picture talking to someone just out of sight. The bright red arm of a jacket snuck into the picture but memory fails me now, I don't know who he was talking to. He is smiling as though in the throws of a great story. My dad is a legendary story-teller. While stories are subjective, a photgraph is objective, revealing only what is true, what is there, right? The next photo is of my brother and I locked by the arms and smiling sheepishly. The insincerety of the smile is hidden by downcast eyes, you'd swear we got a long famously... "Photography" means writing with light. Tonuge, pen or light, one way or another, a story is being formed. Characters are chosen, plot revealed and a 'voice' given to the creator; "This is how I saw it. This is what I remember." The photographer chooses their subject at an angle, frames the scene (what to include and what to exclude?) and focuses on the subject and let's the surrounding blurr. Perhaps the man in the red jacket remembers it differently, I'll never know. There's one last photo. It's completely out of focus and taken from an angle just south of flattering. It's me. I blush, remembering the narcissistic moment. I took the photo of myself in a moment of self-indulgence. My mom laughed seeing the picture; "Not your best angle, Kiki." My blush deepened. Digital bombed our world soon after that and Kodak died of related injury's within a few years. Now everyone is a photographer and 'selfies' are currency. |
| The little girl in the brilliant white bow and the tartan uniform looks up with hope and fear in her eyes. She doesn't exist anymore, she can't. This picture represents a reality long re-written by the victors that came. The colours are fading as though the paper it is printed on knows of its transgression and is trying to hide from truth. Or is it me that is trying to hide? There's something else in the girl's eye; potential. She is a mermaid, she is a ballerina, she is good. The years were not always kind, I was not always good. Looking into to her eyes, I feel uneasy. Did she see her history the way I do now? Perhaps I let her down. History is written by the victors, the saying goes. And, while it is undeniable, the process is stuck on repeat. At what point do we admit that it is all just fiction of a collective consciousness. The streets are being renamed, Geography being changed and history erased. A political figure from 80 years ago has had their ozymandias statue for long enough and must now lie ruined in the dessert sand while someone else gets 'immortalised' by the powers that be in celebration of the history they wrote. Who wrote that little girl's history? Who was her victor? Abbatoir's hooks; maths class. What useful thing did I learn in high school; not perserverence or compassion. Loosing one's mind is the ultimate battle with memory. |
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