The Quirk of Memory
The following is somewhat depressing; I'd recommend skip over it, but then again I'm the author!
I tell people proudly of the second time I was in the news paper because I like thumping my chest and showing off. "Hey look, there I was battling a forest fire with a piece of wood and my boxer shorts!"... However the following describes the chain of thoughts that made me remember the first time I was in the news paper...
So this evening I was driving back over the Bay Bridge when I noticed these little police phone boxes about 500 feet apart on either side of the bridge. I thought to myself how far 500 feet is when you're in trouble; but then again even the most unhealthy of us can bolt 500 feet with an axe-wielding lunatic giving us a motivational adrenaline burst.
Then I thought to myself that a 500 foot dash doesn't outrun a bullet, but it's probably close enough that you could drag yourself to the phone with a single bullet shattering your lower spinal column.
So now light dawns and I remember the thing my brain was obviously pushing me towards - the first time I was in the news.
When I was just a wee sprog of 5 years; some punks playing around with a gun shot our family cat. The shot severed the cats spinal column about half-way down it's back. I don't know where the cat was when it got shot, but I do know it was far enough away that this cat ground its front paws to bloody pulps dragging its way back to our house before its wimpering cries of pain drew my mothers attention.
I was too young to know what was had happened; I knew that our cat was no-longer around and that a news crew had taken a photo of the family and asked us all whether we missed the cat. Things like loss and death are hard for a 5 year old to grasp.
Now I look back on these events with eyes that have seen too much; I think of what our cat went through. The pain; the confusion; the belief that those 'superior beings' where it lived could perhaps help it feel better; the determination to drag itself home; the comfort at being wrapped up in a towel, petted, and driven somewhere; and then finally the sharp needle that brings the tiredness and comfort of sleep.
I wish I knew; but for the life of me I can't remember that cats name!
What's the point in my mind dredging up this memory and pushing it into my consciousness? Isn't this a memory I can do without? And then I realized the point; We are the sum of our memories; pleasant or painful they are the fundamental truth of our existence and without them we are nothing.
Now if you refused to follow my advice and actually wasted your time reading that bilge; cheer up!
I tell people proudly of the second time I was in the news paper because I like thumping my chest and showing off. "Hey look, there I was battling a forest fire with a piece of wood and my boxer shorts!"... However the following describes the chain of thoughts that made me remember the first time I was in the news paper...
So this evening I was driving back over the Bay Bridge when I noticed these little police phone boxes about 500 feet apart on either side of the bridge. I thought to myself how far 500 feet is when you're in trouble; but then again even the most unhealthy of us can bolt 500 feet with an axe-wielding lunatic giving us a motivational adrenaline burst.
Then I thought to myself that a 500 foot dash doesn't outrun a bullet, but it's probably close enough that you could drag yourself to the phone with a single bullet shattering your lower spinal column.
So now light dawns and I remember the thing my brain was obviously pushing me towards - the first time I was in the news.
When I was just a wee sprog of 5 years; some punks playing around with a gun shot our family cat. The shot severed the cats spinal column about half-way down it's back. I don't know where the cat was when it got shot, but I do know it was far enough away that this cat ground its front paws to bloody pulps dragging its way back to our house before its wimpering cries of pain drew my mothers attention.
I was too young to know what was had happened; I knew that our cat was no-longer around and that a news crew had taken a photo of the family and asked us all whether we missed the cat. Things like loss and death are hard for a 5 year old to grasp.
Now I look back on these events with eyes that have seen too much; I think of what our cat went through. The pain; the confusion; the belief that those 'superior beings' where it lived could perhaps help it feel better; the determination to drag itself home; the comfort at being wrapped up in a towel, petted, and driven somewhere; and then finally the sharp needle that brings the tiredness and comfort of sleep.
I wish I knew; but for the life of me I can't remember that cats name!
What's the point in my mind dredging up this memory and pushing it into my consciousness? Isn't this a memory I can do without? And then I realized the point; We are the sum of our memories; pleasant or painful they are the fundamental truth of our existence and without them we are nothing.
Now if you refused to follow my advice and actually wasted your time reading that bilge; cheer up!