Memory Murmur

John D. MacDonald had an interesting take on life. It went something like this:

You and all of the people you know are on a very small island. That island is your life. The raging waters passing by that island are life itself. On that island you live out your days together. You play, laugh, dance, weep, and smile. But eventually someone steps a little too close to the waterline, and they're gone. You watch them fading into the distance, and perhaps they're not drowning but waving, but in any case, they're gone. A memory. And you go back to being with the people on your island.

As you get older, some people come to the island, and some people are washed away. The older you get, the more people slip into the waters until they are gone. And, if you've lived a long life, eventually you are alone on that island. Maybe one or two other people are with you. Until they too are engulfed. And then it's just you, waiting to go under.

Depressing.

But it makes sense. When you stroll through a cemetery and see a man's grave marker that reads 1902, it doesn't take much imagination to realize that there is not a single person still alive that knew him. He might make for a tall tale around the campfire, but no one misses him. He's just gone.

Not that the dead guy worries about it. The Romans used to put an epitaph on the grave markers of slaves. It got straight to the point:

I was not.
I was.
I am not.
I do not care.

Indeed.

Memories are like grave markers. Every once in a while we smell a cup of coffee, or hear a car horn, and someone's image pops into our minds. I have always been fascinated by that. You do not need to hear a person's name to remember them. Something merely has to happen, and for some reason this triggers a chemical reaction in your brain that says, "Johnny, getting hit in the face by a baseball." Or, "Jennifer, when she laughed at me because I couldn't undo her bra."

It is people, of course, that are the meat of memories. If I say to you, "High school," it's doubtful you'll get too far before picturing a person's face in your mind. If you push that memory a little further, you'll probably remember more about them than you thought possible. And if you keep at it, you might be able to remember the last time you physically saw them. Until they were gone, washed off your island. Not by death (as far as you know), but by time and circumstance.

Memories are a bitch, aren't they? Try as you might, they just don't seem real. When I think back on events five years ago, it's almost like they happened to somebody else. Could I have really felt that way? Did I really say that? Was I really that happy/sad/elated/scared? It felt so real then. Why doesn't it feel real now?

I remember hearing about a friend that died. He wasn't a close friend, but we shared some drinks and jokes together. He was a hell of a guy. He got married, and three years later he dropped dead. I hadn't seen him in a long time. When I got the news, the first thing that popped into my head was him cutting up a salami and asking me if I wanted some. That memory comes from an all-night bender that we'd had. At the end of the night he pulled out some salami, some bread, and a knife. He said, "You want some salami?"

I feel like I cheated him. Nobody's first memory after death should involve a damned salami. I like to think he'll forgive me for that.

For me the hardest part about remembering people that are still alive, and missing them, is not their absence. It is the idea that they are doing things without me. I won't hear their stories, share their joys. They are gone just as if they had been unplugged from life.

Certainly we've all been there. It doesn't take very long to feel like you've been washed off the island. A friend says good-bye, and a short time later you get a mass email. And deep down you realize: "They don't need me anymore." They are busy making more memories, only this time you aren't in them. You do not, as it were, exist.

One time I wrote to an old girlfriend of mine. She lives in London and I was going there for some reason or other. I would only be there for the day. I thought it would be swell if we could hang out down by Piccadilly Circus and have a cup of coffee, share a few laughs. She wrote back to tell me that she was busy that day, but she hoped I would have a great time. And I was momentarily angry with her. Why could she not spare the time? And then it hit me that she's alive and living a life that I haven't been part of in years.

I found out an old friend of mine had a blog. I opened it up. It's a very personal blog, with daily routines and who's doing what to whom. I read it briefly. And I closed it. I'll check in on it from time to time, to see what they're up to, but it is like reading the diary of a stranger. It smacks of research, not reminiscence. Did I know that person the way people know them now? Did I really know them at all?