When We Live In Our Memories
A personal essay written on a recent trip to the coast. No edits; pure scratch.
God, memories are a weird thing. Sometimes when you make them, you realize, in the moment, these are memories for a lifetime. No matter how mundane or exciting. It could be the rays of a sunset sliding across a wooden deck overlooking a vast body of water. Or the green trees of a park, shading the ground.
There are colors or tints that pop into my own core memories. It always involves a sunset or sunrise. The power of nature can overwhelm. Memories to me are the color of sand; a golden tint fading like a photograph of an older family member or friend long forgotten.
Cars feature heavily in the wisps. Big hunks of metal and steel shooting over 60 miles per hour, pulling us with them, along highways built by generations thinking of the future. The concrete is a reminder to a time when building was the way. We build to be the best for ourselves and for the generations unborn. Now those roads creek and break and no longer remind us of what could be, only what we forgot we are.
Roads are long memories through the country. They start in one spot and end up in a different place altogether. Sounds simple. But it’s a great metaphor of life too.
We visited Chicago late last summer. The start of “Historic” Route 66 is there. A road with history built into it; main street oof America. It was part of the Dustbowl migration of the 1930’s. Steinbeck made it the background character in the Grapes of Wrath. The route itself curves through the US, before making its way to Santa Monica, California. A part of Los Angeles unlike anything in Chicago. Chicago starts with the Blues; California ends with a 12 string melody of folk. And along the way, a history of American(a) expansion.
Memories are not nostalgia. They are the bits and pieces of a past life we remember. And age decays those memories at a slow pace. Nostalgia is used as a weapon to make people believe a certain time when they were younger and life was better; easier. And then it’s sold to you so you can relive that time.
Media companies are notorious for doing this. Long form television series are set in the 80’s. Musicians and producers find old synths and albums and copy them. Inspiration is a big part of why. But Big Media removes the soul by finding a hit and shoving it down everyone’s throat in whatever way they can. Sell it; buy it; live it; think it.
Memories change as we age. There is an old cliche “you can return, but you never really come home”. This is one of those phrases you never understand until you live it. Because after 25 years, you will return to where you grew up, and while it’s the same; the lawns are mowed to perfection; the same houses stand as pillars, it has changed. And at the same time, you have changed. The only consistency is time passing. Everything else is a memory.
My childhood streets are bigger than I remember. They are wide enough for three cars to drive down at the same time. The houses are on real property; large enough to have multi-car garages and more than enough lawn to care for. I came of age there, but became a young adult all the way to entering middle age in the Pacific Northwest. The memories can be difficult.
One thing you are told when you are young but never internalize until you are older is forgiveness. Forgive and forget, a powerful cliche when used right. But sometimes you have been wronged. And sometimes you want to get back at the people who wrong you. But what’s the point? We all are all trying to live life the best we can. Mistakes happen. Don’t hold grudges; you will regret them in the long-term.
This is how life moves along. Each tick of the clock; every breath taken; time is the one element we don’t have enough of. We can live in the now and we can live in our memories.