Does it never trouble you; how memory works? How the brain makes connections between seemingly unrelated aspects of one's life?
I have been watching, a second time around, 'Life on Mars' and 'Ashes to ashes', which play out in a cornucopia of popular music from the time in which each 'series' is set. I had no problem with 1973; I recognised every track, even Atomic Rooster! But the 1980s? Bar a few snatches of Donna Summer and the Human League, the only track that I recognised was David Bowie's 'Scary Monsters' and that weirdly took me back to 1969.
Robert Fripp is probably the most under-rated and under-appreciated guitarist of his, or any other, generation. Why 1969? Because, in the words of Melanie Safka; 'to be there was to remember'. He was good then, sitting on his stool; he is awesome now!
I know that Fripp played guitar on the track and so it makes sense that it would take me back to Hyde Park and King Crimson blowing the Stones off stage but why would that dredge up memories of some middle-aged, balding plumber offering me money (a lot of money) to have me ejaculate in his mouth? And why would that make me think about S1, whose lips would never touch my cock, or S2, who could, seemingly, never get enough. Always swallowed, did S2.
Did she really enjoy it. They say that they do but can you believe them? "No,
not love" she said.
"Don't you know that it's different for girls?"
And so, where does that leave me? An ageing misanthrope with nothing but memories. Perhaps. But I remember the love, not the sex. And the love sustains me; however cold it might be.
"I'll spend my whole life, just making the time right. But I'll still have a bowl of that leftover wine." Why does that song still haunt me after 40, 50 years. Perhaps, not for the first time, you never threw the dice and prayed for 'lucky seven'. Maybe, that was the night. I doubt that it was but, if it was, I am sorry Marianna!
Lost opportunity. Tell me about it! I could write the book!
Like today, no kidding.
I came out of the 'corner shop' and there was a mother, a baby and a puppy; I bent down to stroke the puppy (I am a fool for dogs) and the dog was suddenly whipped away from me. Why?
And there it was; the cafe on the opposite corner. The one that I had never entered in the four years since they opened despite the fact that they sold Segafreddo espresso. So why then? I have no idea. The woman with the baby and the puppy followed me in about a minute or two later. (Don't despair, I did not think she was actually following me for the prospect of a night of unbridled passion.) But as I sat there alone, nursing my two double espressos (I later had a third, I am a fool for caffeine as well), I stared out of the window and I became lost in seemingly disconnected memories; memories, entirely unconnected, except as a part of my life,
The night that she crept into my sleeping bag, half naked, with mischief on her mind; my very own Faerie Queen. The evening I spent eating rose petals washed down with pints of ale, pregnant with anticipation but fearful nonetheless. The night that I spent in the cells at Holborn 'nick' fearing the worst. The day spent trudging through the snow, blinded by the unseasonable, spring blizzard on the road to the defunct Leica factory in Wetzlar merely to pay homage. A restaurant in Zakynthos sipping Pina Colados, a cava chilling in the bucket, courtesy of the house, fresh lobster topped by a small firework and the best damn sunset you will ever see. The night that I sat by the 'phone with a (very) sharp knife and a bath full of water with memories of her and the 'Roman way' of dealing with it all.
I have a vague, and I am sure misguided, idea of how the brain works. Cells 'fire' across the synaptic gap, creating electrical impulses by chemical means. Quite possibly, memories are stored in a 'daisy-chain' cascade of multiple neurons; not just a single transfer. Perhaps I am wrong but surely unconnected memories cannot be invoked by one single memory. But perhaps the brain is far more interconnected than I imagine and the paths, which that 'final firing' neuron in the sequence is able to avail itself of many other connections, which the 'originating' neuron has no access to.
Borges hit the nail on the head with his 'Garden of the Forking Paths' Perhaps I have read too much Borges!
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