It’s hard to say which memories will stay with you and which ones will fade. Something happens, and at the time, it seems so insignificant, yet years upon years later, you find yourself sitting alone writing about memories, and just like magic, there that insignificant event from your past is, dancing around on the front of your lobe like so many Warner Brother’s frogs, outfitted with walking canes and top hats.
Limited options when dining in an environment that I cannot control. Reading labels on new foods and then googling ingredients I’ve never heard of. Hoping that the dietary aid designed to ease the pain caused by digesting lactose works to the extent that I need it to. Custom ordering items on a menu to remove milk-based ingredients. Food becomes less enjoyable. Food becomes a chore.
“Perfect!”, you say to yourself, placing the finishing touches on a brand new article. “I’ve written something that adds nothing new to a topic I know absolutely nothing about in a field so saturated that the only way I’m going to give this article any traffic is if I spam it constantly across multiple social networks!”
And that no corpse dying of infection shall be buried, or remain in any church in time of common prayer, sermon, or lecture. And that no children be suffered at time of burial of any corpse in any church, churchyard, or burying-place to come near the corpse, coffin, or grave. And that all the graves shall be at least six feet deep. – Defoe, Daniel A Journal of the Plague Year, 1722.
I don’t remember my first encounter with a gaming system. While some people can wax poetically about the way a room smelled 30 years ago when their trembling, sweaty hands first clutched that plastic controller and choirs of angels sang hymns of glorious revolution behind parting clouds of golden fiery explosions, I can’t even be sure which system was my first.
Hiding beneath everything that makes me me is a new version of that person; and he has learned a trick that I could never manage to, in all of my years of attempting: the trick of letting go.
You remember, a while back, at the theatre, y’know, before the picture would start? That sound check for the stereo equipment would come on, and the noise, you know, that low hum, it would sound so far off, right? And it’d grow, and grow, and grow, as if you were walking up to this explosion just waiting to happen, all casual like. And, before you knew it, the sound was deafening, and your ear drums had exploded, and you’d have blood trickling down the side of your neck, and you’re looking around, confused. What the fuck just happened?, you’d ask yourself, as you bumble around, holding the sides of your skull as if trying to keep your brains from leaking out on to the soda-coated floor below your seat.