There was a fly that I can distinguish from the rest. There are always the countless number that flutter about that try to land on your skin or eat get at your leftovers. Sometimes they make it on the tops of your ears without any notice. But there was one that I can clearly remember. It swept in and landed on a text book that I was reading and stayed for longer than any fly before. I thought it was simply bold when it didn't fly away. It wasn't staying its ground like a bear or a lion would when they stare back at you. The fly had simply come to find a place to die. I know because I pushed it over with my pen. Then I pushed it some more just to be certain it wasn't pulling one over me.
That was years ago. I cannot remember what I read. All that is there is a bright clear day, a pile of paper work, and a textbook with a dead fly standing over it. I sat on a chair with my back to an open window and the fly stayed its ground between my arms on the kitchen table. I remember these things not with content for the fly, nor with conviction. My mind simply had nothing better to do than to remember this as important. But that is the what is tricky about memory as it carries on.
There is nothing truer that I can say about memory than I am already forgetting things I did today. The fly stays with me because it stands in defiance of what flies normally do. But things today like the number of phone calls made, the amount of time it took to drive home, and even small thoughts that were interrupted by less interesting events are all lost.
Who are we then if we can't remember much? I can say without any doubt that I am comfortable being me. But we can make concrete statements about what it is we think of ourselves. Some might be eager, sulking, utterly elated at this moment. What happens though after the thoughtful comments about our state of being? We forget them days from now. Weeks from now it wont even register. We'll feel different about a song and we once again forget to take out the trash. Years from now it will introduce itself. For what reasons I cannot begin to suggest.
That was years ago. I cannot remember what I read. All that is there is a bright clear day, a pile of paper work, and a textbook with a dead fly standing over it. I sat on a chair with my back to an open window and the fly stayed its ground between my arms on the kitchen table. I remember these things not with content for the fly, nor with conviction. My mind simply had nothing better to do than to remember this as important. But that is the what is tricky about memory as it carries on.
There is nothing truer that I can say about memory than I am already forgetting things I did today. The fly stays with me because it stands in defiance of what flies normally do. But things today like the number of phone calls made, the amount of time it took to drive home, and even small thoughts that were interrupted by less interesting events are all lost.
Who are we then if we can't remember much? I can say without any doubt that I am comfortable being me. But we can make concrete statements about what it is we think of ourselves. Some might be eager, sulking, utterly elated at this moment. What happens though after the thoughtful comments about our state of being? We forget them days from now. Weeks from now it wont even register. We'll feel different about a song and we once again forget to take out the trash. Years from now it will introduce itself. For what reasons I cannot begin to suggest.
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