On the occasion of my impending thirtieth birthday--so many years ago--I wrote a piece for my local alt-weekly lamenting my inability to remember important actual events in my life while being able to recall in detail stupid movie plots. I fancied myself a Gen X spokesman, bravely whispering what we didn't wish to acknowledge: We're getting old.
When I wrote that, my mother and father were both still alive. I hadn't been married, hadn't lived anywhere away from where I grew up. The person who wrote that seems so incredibly naive, and yet...I turn forty-three tomorrow, and everything is pretty much the same.
Memories of things that have happened to me, things that matter, have a dream-like quality, a sense of unreality about them, and I can't access them in whole. Movie plots, TV episodes, song lyrics--no problem. They're right there whenever I need them, and even when I don't.
In fact, my memories of watching movies and TV, of listening to music, are more vivid than any others. I can recall the theater and even where I sat while sitting through everything from favorites like The Shining and All That Jazz to crap like Xanadu and Rocky IV--but I couldn't tell you what I did after I left the theater. I remember nestling in my beanbag chair, headphones clamped on my ears, listening to Ennio Morricone, my cat Bo curled up and watching me from the foot of my bed--but I can't connect that memory to any other, or remember specifically what I did before or after my music time.
My life plays out as a series of fragments, unless those fragments are connected to something larger--like a TV show or a movie. Then maybe I can recall (at least vaguely) a Tuesday night from the summer of '77, a MASH rerun followed by One Day At A Time, followed by--what? My brother and I hanging out for awhile? Me sitting in the living room reading while Mom and Dad watched some crappy crime show or other? These sound familiar; they certainly happened. Lots of things happened. Did this particular event happen the same day as this other one? If you remember what the puzzle looked like when it was completed, does it matter how many pieces are gone?
Mom's wheezing laugh when she got hysterical--that I still recall. And her voice, but the specific sound of dad's voice is starting to fade. I still hear it, but I can't recognize whether what I hear is accurate. I remember the layout of my childhood home, but some of the details are hazy. I remember how I loved my dog Spinner, but I can't tell you much about him. Moments stand out in detail, even as something larger is lost.
But hey--I can still recall every damn episode from the first three seasons of Welcome Back, Kotter.
