Engram

It is funny in remembering--how you can't. Memories come soaring up out of the depths and surprise you. Sometimes they are impressionistic and sometimes they come back in great detail. I am sure, though, that neither is to be trusted. Well, you have to "trust' them, for they are the stuff by which we live our lives, our roadmaps to the future, etc. But the mind alters details and conflates things. I read in the New York Times today that scientists have found a chemical that will suppress memories. I know that alcohol and recreational drugs do that, but this is different. You can read it here.

This morning, I want to write just dialog that I might have heard in high school, but I can't remember anything. I try to remember anything, but I am having no luck. Not with words. I remember the hallways as they come back to me in nightmares, those cement block walls and concrete floors, hallways lit by weak fluorescent lights, forever dim and dirty hallways lined by metal lockers with vented doors, two rows of beige metal lockers one atop the other, hallways full of rushing students and echoing voices. I can still feel the grit of sand on concrete beneath my shoes and see the dark stains and blotches of gum. Green doors opening from classrooms, swinging out into the hallway when opened.  You had to watch out. There were open hallways between buildings covered by corrugated metal roofs held up by hollow metal poles painted brown, the sidewalk standing four of five inches above the eroded sand on either side.

Passageways. I don't remember having a conversation with anyone.

Summer. Someone had a boat. We were skiing. Some of us floated in the lake, treading water, while the boat pulled a skier far away. We tread water and talked. I was amazed that we could do this so long, and thinking about it made me panicky. It seemed I would just tire out and drown. I was only worried about being embarrassed by it. But the boat stayed out and we continued to float and talk and laugh, the tension remaining with me.

Tommy helped the trailer park owner build a seawall. I was amazed. How did Tommy know what to do? I knew nothing of tools and materials. Tommy was good with his hands. He could draw. I always received bad grades for penmanship. No dexterity.

But I could think. I could sit anywhere and watch and think. I didn't know people who could do that. I was happy thinking and watching people. I was intuitive. I knew more about people than others, I told myself. I loved the hum of uncrowded public places.

I had a car and everything was new. I loved driving down roads and highways. There was so much to see.

Weekends at the beach. There was promise in it. Long, broad, white beaches running forever. There was an inlet, a lighthouse, sea grapes and palmetto lining the dunes. A marsh, a brackish river. We stayed too long. Everyone got sunburned.

One night, a fellow had an eight millimeter projector and some porn movies. I'd never seen one before. They were on small reels and didn't last long. They were not really porn, just women doing striptease, taking off their clothing, sitting under bright lights on beds and couches. Tick tick tick tick tick. Everyone hooted and hollered.

The differences between minds was becoming greater. Some were coming to consciousness, all taking positions. Politics. Woodstock and the Kent State shootings were discussed in classes. Even the Tri-Hi-Y and Civitan crowds were forced to reckon.

I try to remember what was said. I hear tones and intonations, but not words. Not this morning.

Summer was coming to an end. It would be my Senior Year.