Have Memories, Will Link

Memory is a funny thing. The mere fact we're capable to remember is both a biological marvel and a necessity of survival, but that's not quite what's on my mind. Today (rather, when I wrote this, somewhere between South Georgia and Antarctica) I'm (or was) pondering memory "chains", how some experiences form links in the brain. I imagine I can't be the only one who makes these sort of connections, though - I'd love to hear from you if you do too.

While in NYC, my siblings and I watched "Book of Mormon." It was the funniest thing I've ever seen, over two hours of basically non-stop laughter, with quite an amusing message at the end, too. If you haven't seen it, especially if you live in NYC (or London, where it might also be playing), just drop everything and go. Right now. You'll thank me later. I have the soundtrack on my tablet, and listen to it every so often, especially when I need a good laugh or a distraction from whatever it is that's bothering me. There are very few things I've ever found funnier - perhaps only George Carlin and Louis CK come consistently close.

While listening the the soundtrack, many things come to my mind. The fun I shared with my siblings. Visuals from the show itself. "Previews" of the next lyrics to come, especially if they're hilarious favorites (an un-spoiler-y example: "Heavenly Father, why do you let bad things happen?; More to the point, why do you let bad things happen to me?"). Other great experiences from the week in NYC with my family, whom I haven't seen since, and other awesome images of my time in NYC, which was rather amazing. It's all rather positive and hilarious.

However, there's another memory that seldom fails to attach itself somewhere to this train of thought, somewhat akin to that person you really don't like yet somehow knows enough friends-of-friends to be at every party you go to. Truly, it's a very uninteresting memory: I was stood up by an OkCupid date (OkCupid is an online dating site I've been using, and actually quite liking (at least some of the time), for the best two years or so. There'll probably be a far longer blog post on that subject when the muse strikes me.). The tale is a classic one: gal and guy exchange a dozen messages or so; guy and gal decide to meet; gal and guy pick a time and place; gal goes incommunicado on the day of the meeting (and has been, until present day).Yes, we had also texted, and yes, I also called. Yes, it's also highly possible I did something to dissuade her from meeting. No, that's not the fucking point.

You (the two or three of you who might read this post) are probably wondering to yourself, "What does this even have to do with 'Book of Mormon'"? Short answer: not a whole lot. Longer answer: I mentioned I'll be seeing the musical, and she excitedly said she loves it, and knows a cast member or two (she's in theater (aside: isn't the British spelling of theatre much more pleasing to type or look at?)). C'est tout. I remember her as being rather cute, but couldn't for the life of me tell you what her pictures looked like. I was rather excited about meeting here, to the usual (and rather high) extent I'm excited about a first meeting in person. Again, more thoughts about online dating at some point in the future (sooner rather than later if someone actually wants to read it).

By itself this isn't a very interesting story, not even to me, but I believe it offers a glimpse into how I think about a great many things. Although outwardly I'm rather talented at deflecting blame, inwards I'm the first and foremost person I blame whenever anything goes wrong. I guess it's a rather extreme inner locus of control; while it allows me to draw great strengths (believing in myself to go through six months of physiotherapy twice, and probably a third time at some point in 2015, as an easy example), it can also be quite a burden. As confident as I can be in myself and in what I do, it isn't easy living with the voice inside that questions every move made, every word picked, every text sent, and every emotion felt. Just like I spent quite sometime wondering what made her disappear, I tend to dwell on the negative sides of experiences far more than the positive ones. Case in point: I'm pretty convinced I spend far more time questioning my failed relationships (generally blaming myself for every misstep) than celebrating the fun I had in the successful and awesome relationships I've had.

While these sentiments are centered around relationships, they're far from unique to them. From time to time I ponder how much of a fuckhead (academically, socially, and otherwise) I was in high school, and how different my life might be right now had I worked harder and smarter. This conveniently ignores the fact I'm pretty damn pleased with where I am now (especially as I'm traveling, you can never quite get enough of that), and where I'm headed (for the most part). I feel as if failed chances and missed opportunities get prime-time broadcasting, while successes are often relegated to daytime TV and ESPN 8: The Ocho.

I can't say I'm sure this is all that terrible; however, like most things in life, I should strive for better balance. One of my favorite poems (from the limited selection I know well enough to like), "If" by Rudyard Kipling (and yes, it's very white-patriarchal, but I can still find some inspiration within it from time to time), touches the topic:

If you can dream—and not make dreams your master;   

    If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim;   

If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster

    And treat those two impostors just the same;  

More than anything else, it was a fun topic to ponder and write about. If you've made it all the way down here, congratulations! I hope you enjoyed, and I'd love to hear some thoughts.

P.S.: A day or so after writing this originally, I realized another one. The Black Keys' Attack and Release is linked in my mind to an awesome woman I knew a few years ago, who was the first to introduce me to them. A, if you're reading this: you were wonderful, and deserved better than how it ended up. I'm sorry.

P.P.S: Since writing this, I haven't spent much time dwelling on that specific memory. I guess writing really does have cathartic qualities. I should do this more often.