the heart that you call home

As this blog’s subject matter and style become* more sporadic/sprawling/diverse/(random), I spend more time considering the utility of accuracy in memory. After all, how many future events depend on me accurately remembering some intimate moment? Will I be deposed on my life, and even if so, out of those hundreds of pages of transcript, how many words would even matter for the end result?

Let me start over: I recently transcribed a couple of memories in this blog.

I worry that, if I don’t record these moments, I will forget them. But why should I worry about forgetting them? If I forget them, doesn’t that mean that I had no need to remember them?

Scarier to me, really, is that the most vivid moments become mushy unless you practice them regularly.

But again, why should it matter that these memories invert themselves?

I classify myself as an honest person. I don’t know when I ever lie. I am prone to hyperbole, especially when particularly excited, but forgive myself this because I can write it off as obviously, self-consciously, comically hyperbolic to both myself and the audience. However, when I merely exaggerate — say I slept five hours instead of six, or ate four cupcakes instead of two, or claim I’ve copulated 2,000 times when I should offer 1,897 — it is much harder for me to then remember what “really” happened, after all.

But again — why should it matter what “really” happened? Again, assuming that nobody else is dependent on my recollection, if my mind has found it more useful to warp my recollection into something different, isn’t that my new reality? Is this performed pseudo-memory something divine that allows me to live the moment, create the future I may or may not know, but should, want? And is it really fair to call it a pseudo-memory, or to deny its reality, when it is now all that matters to me, and all I subconsciously consider moving forward? Does it matter that, with every passing second, this memory inevitably changes just a little? Should the memory change linearly, so that, in twenty years, it is completely unrecognizable to its antecedent, or should memory just be in some amoebic flux, in which I trust the umbra and accept the penumbra?

Spring Break means spring cleaning. Marvelously, I have finished my apartment, and now have moved on to cyberspace. Categorizing dozens of “Uncategorized” posts has proven extremely obnoxious, even with the option of filing a post into multiple categories.

Looking at the couple of anecdotes I’ve posted, I wonder if I must specify each one’s level of truthiness. When I publish these anecdotes, I feel like a liar if they’re not 100% true, or if they’re exaggerated in any way; the journalistic ethics mythos haunts me. Moreover, I grow scared that, if I don’t name these categories, or even if I draw an arbitrary not-from-concentrate/some pulp/no pulp truthiness line, I cheat my audience, and my most intrigued audience member: myself.

Some stories here are 100% true, or, at least, as accurate as you can get without contemporaneously recording the moment. Others are wholly fiction. Some rework true memory into near fiction. Do I need to name each category as such? If I do not, do I mislead my audience? Would I be a liar? And would it really matter? Actually, what the fuck is a lie, anyway?

 

 

 

*like it does this all itself! this unstoppable force ignores the immovable object!

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