There’s a stain on my notebook
Where your coffee cup was
And there’s ash in the pages
Now I’ve got myself lost–Squeeze/Black Coffee In Bed
Whence did it come? What did it mean? How could I seize and apprehend it? … And suddenly the memory revealed itself. The taste was that of the little piece of madeleine which on Sunday mornings at Combray (because on those mornings I did not go out before mass), when I went to say good morning to her in her bedroom, my aunt Léonie used to give me, dipping it first in her own cup of tea or tisane. The sight of the little madeleine had recalled nothing to my mind before I tasted it. And all from my cup of tea.
–Proust/Remembrance Of Things Past
Proust had his madeleines, but it’s different for everyone. A lot of us have memories tied to songs, but sometimes they’re more random. And sometimes, even with a lot of information, the memory just won’t come to the surface.
My cousin showed me a couple of a pictures that were taken in the early ’80s. I recognize all of the people. I could tell you where I bought the shirt I’m wearing. One of my friends remembers why she bought the skirt she’s wearing, and the name of her hairdresser at the time. I know it’s at my house…near Christmas-time…
But I can’t remember why we were all there, drinking out of plastic cups! The occasion seems to be totally lost.
Memory is so slippery.
It is so prone to inaccuracy or variances of interpretation. I wonder sometimes if there are really any facts in memories. I already wonder if there are even any facts, so I guess that would be the answer.
It’s fascinating to me, though, how sometimes you can hear a snippet of a song and suddenly remember everything about when you heard it– who all was there sitting on a set of twin beds, what an old boyfriend smelled like, how great someone’s hair looked that day, how the sun looked shining through the curtains, whose voices you heard laughing in the next room. Other times, like with these photographs, you have all the information and none of the memories.
Is it because the occasion was less important somehow, or is there something more random about it?
What makes the memory stick?
Clearly, this was the year that Sharon gave me the wild woman perm. Shortly after the wild woman perm, we tried to drive the Dutch exchange student across the street to the beach. Flat tire. No spare. It was also the year that any of us would do pretty much anything.
But I don’t remember why the three of us were sitting on the hearth that night, drinking beer out of plastic cups.
I hope we had a good time…
