Entry #16: What we Forget, and What we Keep

It is shocking to me that I have been in England for almost six weeks (beating the record of days I'd been away from home, formerly 35 days) and there are already days I don't remember. Of course, not every day can be exciting, but the days do blur quite easily when one settles into a routine. The way that we forget people or places, like water in a closed fist, is something I often ponder.

What is painful about forgetting a person is that the subtle, essential details are so quick to ebb; first, the smell and the taste; then, the feel of your fingers through their hair and the curve of their back. Then, auditory memory: suddenly, the inflection of their voice and the particular, uneven pattern of breath grows hazy. Finally, the sight- the detail of their mouth, of their ears... At best, their memory reduced into limited static fragments. A fleeting smell on a city bus will bring it all back. With a bit of effort, you can visualize their smiling face in the ether of your mind or hear a catchphrase in the exact way they would have said it. From these pieces we attempt to make a complete picture, but we are doomed to redundancy, for the million little flecks which composed their entirety are quick to elude us, escaping like particles in every imaginable direction. What we recall is, at best, a fabricated patchwork of the soap they used, the way they grin in that one photograph, and a bank of their history, of the songs they liked, of the words they said that one night you were sitting on the porch, drunk out of your mind.

Forgetting a place is much of the same. We feel certain that the streets, the odours, the noises, our emotional reactions will remain fresh- but like everything else, they yellow and harden with age. I have been to New York City twice now, four and five years ago, and I can't say I recall much of what some people consider the most amazing megalopolis on Earth. I remember riding up to the top of Rockerfeller Center in the evening and being completely shrouded in a thick mist, and seeing nothing at all (I kind of appreciate the idea of having one's head in a cloud). I remember telling bedtime stories to the other girls in my hotel room about an alligator in a hotel. I have a vivid memory of waiting in a pizza line and watching the sweat pour off the chefs' faces in torrents. Other than that, I recollect little off the top of my head.

Humans know that that experience is for the most part temporary, and we don't like this at all. We are- especially when travelling- constantly trying to possess our experience in a way that is tangible: for example, by buying souvenirs, or taking photographs. These things do help, I think, but they cannot tell us how we felt or what we thought during our stay in a given place- or, rather, what we saw, heard, touched, smelled and tasted, and how we reacted to it.

I am trying to decide, while I am still here for another five or six weeks, what I would like to remember about my summer in Sidmouth and how best to go about it.

One lethargic morning a few weeks ago, the part of me which cares about my well-being struggled really hard to convince the other part to go out for a run up the cliff. It was early, and chilly, and hazy, and though I really could've lounged around another hour, I put on my trainers and set off on my disgruntled way. I ran up some bits, and walked some others. As I headed up the familiar trail, the air grew progressively heavier and the mist denser. When I got to the top, the cloud covered all; I couldn't see the barns, or the distant fields, or the other peaks, or even the Channel. Wind blew the sparse bushes sideways. Humidity kept the dew a little longer, beads of water perching on leaves and on blades of grass. I was completely, and wonderfully alone. There was nothing to do in a moment of such perfect solitude than to scream into the nothingness, so I did. It was only a fleeting minute in a already-forgotten day, but I want to recall it.

I want to remember the clarity of the high tide as it relaxes into the shore, where I have sat with my dear friend many evenings after work.

I want to remember the taste of the blackberries I pluck off the bushes whenever I stray into the forest or a  field.

I want to remember the imperious grandeur of a Knickerbocker Glory or of the hotel trifles.

John Ruskin, whose work I had the luck of seeing in exposition in Ottawa last spring, had given a lot of thought to the way we can take something beautiful and, somehow, keep it for ourselves. He was derisive of photographs; he thought the click of the camera shutter did just the opposite, relegating the absorption of the subject to a digital device rather than to our own eyes. More importantly, the way we experience a scene cannot be captured in a photograph. We only have two eyes, two ears, ten fingers (etc.). What we notice is only part of the whole, but it is the basis for our experience. Ruskin (an amazing traveller, sketch artist and painter- you ought to check him out) said that the best way to keep a memory is to draw it or to write about it. Only then can we really capture all that we are seeing and feeling. The things we pay no notice to in the moment- the empty juice box on the beach, the distant blare of Country Hits from a faraway nightclub- are left out. What we keep is what we are immersed in at this moment.

I strongly encourage writing and drawing as a regular record-keeping of experience, travelling or not. In the daily grind, we sometimes feel as if there is nothing worthy of recollection, but it is quite disheartening to later accept that there are gaping holes in the development of our consciousness because they have faded away completely. It may seem very American- paying very close attention to how we feel about everything- but I think it is interesting.

I have been working on some sketches, but I am afraid none are very satisfactory yet.

Sitting on the beach on a very, very hot day

This post is already too long, but here is my advice for you on this fine day: pay attention to how you experience all that is around you, and try to keep some of it. You'll be glad you did.

(Shoutout to Jude and Cass for taking me to the John Ruskin exhibition at the National Gallery)