Why do we remember what we remember? It's so strange how it works, this mind. Sure, it's easy to soak things in when you're dropped in an entirely new environment. Such as a vacation. Or the first few days you move somewhere new. Longer lasting memories come without difficulty that way. But then we all saddle ourselves with routines that trot us through each day of life's tiresome conventions. Which is why the standout beaches of time like our vacations usually stay with us longer than our other, less splash-worthy days. We don't carry memories of every day we work, for example, but only a few. Many of which are throwaway details of some humdrum sub-task we finished or writing forgettable notes to ourselves or something similarly uninteresting. But why do we keep these memories and not other throwaway details? Why do we save the memories we save during such pedestrian days? ...Why do fools fall in lava?
So I made a memory the other day! All by myself! I was circumventing this mysterious FedEx building in town, drawing so near I could pretend like I was smelling it. You can always count on Mapquest for locating unknown buildings. *hock!* They were package-sitting my mail for me. These are all just the throwaway details, right? Well, I found the bloody place, picked up my package, and I literally hopped on the familiar highway back home (I did a little rump-jump in my seat as I entered the on-ramp).
[size=1]Sidenote: have you ever suddenly realized that you like something? I don't know why I never thought about it before, but I like getting mail (bills excluded with extreme prejudice). Not sure how I summoned up the cognitive energy to finally have this dawn on me. A fluke of the mind. Mail...it's like a mini-Christmas of words and pictures. Ah, to tear through the envelope to find the message destined for me and only me. It's a silly sense of ownership I guess. Or you can get a box full of goodies (or goody, depending on how nice you've been to the Mailman this year. Always watching). I don't get much mail, but I do like getting it. In fact, I'm too lazy to create mail of my own, but I am an expert at receiving it. Kinduva normal thing, liking mail. As if I finally discovered that, at long last, I love tying shoes. But realizing for the first time that you have a particular affection for something, even a slight one, is pretty cool. *kills sidenote*[/size]
So anyways, as I'm driving down the highway, I had a strange awareness of things. In those very moments, with the radio channels dueling between Mozart and AC/DC, I felt my mind was "imprintable," like a memory was ready to entrench itself in one of those gnarly folds of my brain. I guess the sky had the right color and texture for me to know that this memory was going to stay. Sometimes you just know it. However, I couldn't help but wonder, while knowing this moment would be remembered, why it [i]was[/i] this moment that would be remembered, and not 10 minutes prior or 10 minutes thereafter (neither of which I can really describe for you now). The sun was cooling in the great bathtub beyond the peninsula hills, so the clouds were sponging up the delicious dying colors, like some hanging memory of the sun's light that day. This very image of looking through my windshield, this memory, was littered with power lines, unremarkable towers and highways, all blocking the great image of light and sky and fog beyond it. It would have been neat to reach out into my plain of vision and pull away the highways and all the other messy man-made props, like distracting ivy growing from a windowsill. To be able to decide exactly what I see, and do something about it. But I knew that these power lines and towers and highways were supposed to be apart of the of this memory. And I was OK with that. Even if I'm not completely certain what it means, I'm glad I remember it clearly.
PS.- Sergio Leone is a master. On a Neumthorian scale.