Memory and Self

In The Issue with Numbers I had a thought: “if there is such a thing as the same person at different times.”

As far as I can tell, I enjoy a continuity of memory from when I was very young until now, decades later. I remember being a child, and I remember many different ages. I don’t remember the exact ages, of course; I remember particular events that (as far as I know) happened when I was different ages. And I really do mean “as far as I know,” because I don’t have any way to verify most of it. There are occasional photos, mostly of events and things I don’t specifically remember — except that I’ve seen the photos, and now I remember seeing them. Have I reconstructed “memories” based on those photos? Or do I only recognize those photos because I remember — or want to remember — what I see there? Or what I think I see.

When I was about three years old we lived in a little ranch house on a cul-de-sac. We were right at the end, and our driveway opened onto the round paved end of the street. There was no through or cross traffic, and I was allowed to ride my tricycle there. But it was down at the other end of the street, where it intersected with another road, where the real action was. In the summer, an ice cream truck would stop at the intersection and all the kids who had a few cents would hear the truck’s bells and come to buy a treat. I think — this is something I don’t remember, but I’ve since decided it was probably the case — that I wasn’t allowed to visit the ice cream truck all by myself; it was a tricycle journey of several hundred feet, and my mom tended to be pretty protective. At least she was when I was just three, which is what I think I was. But my memory is of a day that I rode my trike down there by myself anyway, and managed to buy a soft-serve ice cream cone. I don’t think I have a clear memory of the truck, but I’ve since concluded that it must have been the Mister Softee truck, which was the one with the soft-serve. The other ice cream truck was the Good Humor truck, and that one had wrapped treats in freezer cases. The two ice cream vendors must have had some sort of agreement about their routes, because I’m pretty sure there was never a day when they both stopped by. There may have been a schedule, but I do remember that at that age I didn’t know what it was. The bells on one truck or the other were always an announcement that I waited for, but I think I couldn’t predict. All I remember is that I didn’t know when I’d hear the bells, or which kind of ice cream it was going to be on any given day.

The main scene in this old memory of mine is pedaling back home with my ice cream. It was a hot day — it must have been, even though I have no memory of the feeling of it. But it was hot, because as I pedaled, my ice cream melted. It dripped into the red-and-white plastic horn mounted on my handlebars. It’s always been my impression that the horn was new, but all I have to go on is a general sense that it might have been, because I remember my disappointment when I arrived home and finally noticed all the melted ice cream dripped into my horn. Do I remember the taste of the ice cream? No. Did I get into trouble for riding that far by myself? I have no idea. All I can offer is that the dripped ice cream solidified which surprised me) and my red-and-white plastic horn never worked again.

There are no adults in this memory, and my surroundings are just a blur. I can’t tell you what I was wearing, nor the color of my tricycle. But my horn was red and white, at least it as far as I know.

I seem to have an enormous number of memories of events that happened (as far as I know) at different times in my life. I invariably think of them as things that happened “to me,” although the “me” has been enormously different at different times. Ages, sizes, abilities, knowledge, perceptions — all of these differ. I’ve read that it’s most likely that not a single atom from the person whose ice cream melted still remains as a part of the person writing this. It sounds relatively plausible. So what exactly is the “me” in all these memories? It seems to be simply the memory collection itself, and whatever it is that can “play” the memories back and re-perceive them. As far as I know.

So is there such a thing as “the same person” at different times? The more I think about it, the less sure I am. There is some sort of continuity of memory, or there seems to be. I appear to be what I remember, and what remembers me is just the me doing the remembering. A strange loop indeed.

Tales from the Forest

Hare was hosting a big pot luck dinner for everyone in the forest. He’d come back from helping with the carrot, onion, and potato harvest at the farm with a big sack of vegetables, and he’d been busy all day cooking different things with them. Otter had donated some fish, and Dog had brought a box of very crunchy things she said were were her favorite. When anybody asked (and everybody did, of course) why they were called “milk bones” without having anything to do with milk or bones, Dog said she had no idea. Raccoon said they were okay, but not her favorite, and Fox liked them pretty well, but nobody else wanted any. Dog said that was fine with her, because then she could have more.

Squirrel had been just as busy as Hare, and had brought acorn cookies, acorn pancakes, acorn tarts, and something he called acorn parmesan. Hardly anybody else liked acorns, but the cookies were pretty popular anyway.

Ma and Pa Mouse brought a cheese plate they’d put together with help from Masie and Hortense the cows, and Jake and Oliver, the horses who lived on the farm, trotted in pulling an enormous wagon full of hay. Jake said there was a pile of oats on the wagon too, but when he looked he couldn’t find it. Oliver hemmed and hawed, and finally admitted he’d eaten the oats already. “Please forgive me,” said Oliver to Jake. “You were probably saving the oats for breakfast, but they were so delicious…”

“Doesn’t bother me,” said Jake, “but have you said exactly that to me before? Or maybe it was someone else? Anyway, it sounded strangely familiar.”

“I have that feeling sometimes too,” said Hedgehog. “I don’t know if I’ve really heard something before or if it’s just a weird feeling. It’s hard to know, but I figure that if you can keep your head when everyone about you is blaming you for eating the oats…”

“I’m not blaming anybody,” said Jake, “but I’m having that same feeling all over again.”

“I’ve had that feeling too,” said Otter, “but not for a really long time. The last time, I think, was many and many a year ago in a kingdom by the sea.”

“Now just a minute,” said Jake. “Is everyone playing a prank on me or something?”

“I don’t think so,” said Hare. “Why?”

“Because every time anybody says anything, I feel like I’ve heard it before,” said Jake.

“I wouldn’t worry about it,” said Mole. “Some things just sound the same. Like bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, bells…”

“There you go again!” whinnied Jake. “I’m SURE I’ve heard…”

“I think it’s probably just in your head,” giggled Otter. “I figure you laugh, and the world laughs with you, y’know?”

“This is getting ridiculous,” grumbled Jake to himself.

Just then along ambled Bear. “Hello, Bear!” called Jake. “How are you today?”

“Oh, not so good,” said Bear. ““I have the measles and the mumps, A gash, a rash and purple bumps. My mouth is wet, my throat is dry; I’m going blind in my right eye.”

“Oh my,” said Jake, “Bear, that sounds…hey wait a minute…Bear, are you just kidding?”

“I am,” grinned Bear. “Actually I’m fine. Nice to see you, Jake! Hey, look at all the great treats to eat! How do I love these? I’d count the ways, but that would take time away from trying them,” Bear ambled off toward the food.

“I’m sure this is some sort of prank,” muttered Jake. “I just can’t quite figure out what’s going on.”

Magpie was perched on a branch near Jake and overheard him. “Don’t let it get you down, Jake,” she said. “When you’re up against a trouble, meet it squarely, face to face; lift your chin and set your shoulders; plant your feet and take a brace. “

“You’re doing it too!” yelled Jake. Then he turned to everyone and yelled “if you all don’t quit it right now, I’m leaving!” He spun around and looked at the two paths leading back into the forest. He looked down one as far as he could, to where it bent in the undergrowth. It seemed like a good way to go, but the other path seemed at least as good. It was grassy, as if it hadn’t been worn down by use.

“Now JUST a MINUTE!” said Jake. “Now I’m doing it to MYSELF and that’s JUST NOT FAIR.”

“Who are you talking to, Jake?” asked Beaver.

“Them,” said Jake, waving his tail dismissively around.

Beaver looked. There didn’t seem to be anybody anywhere near where Jake had motioned.

“Um, Jake,” said Beaver carefully, “why don’t we go over to the hay wagon and have a nice snack?”

“Okay, that sounds good,” said Jake. “It’s just so weird, Beaver; every time anybody says anything today it seems like I’ve heard it before.”

“That’s probably just a symptom of being hungry,” said Beaver airily. “Nothing to worry about, Jake. A belly full of hay and you’ll be fine.”

“I guess so,” said Jake, and started munching.

“Is Jake feeling better?” whispered Owl to Beaver.

“I think so,” said Beaver. “I think a nice meal will fix him right up.”

“That was very nice of you,” said Owl.

“If I can stop one mind from breaking, I shall not live in vain,” said Beaver.

“Wait, what did you just say?” said Owl. Then everyone turned to the food and ate.

The Secret Key

Look for Browning, Dickenson, Frost, Guest, Kipling, Malloch, Poe, Silverstein, and Wilcox hiding in the forest.

This is a Not a Poem

The opening of Edward Bulwer-Lytton’s novel Paul Clifford:

It was a dark and stormy night; the rain fell in torrents—except at occasional intervals, when it was checked by a violent gust of wind which swept up the streets (for it is in London that our scene lies), rattling along the housetops, and fiercely agitating the scanty flame of the lamps that struggled against the darkness.

But is it a Poem Now?

Also the opening of Edward Bulwer-Lytton’s novel Paul Clifford:

It was a dark and stormy night
The Rain fell
in torrents
Except at occasional intervals when it was
checked
by a violent gust of wind
which swept up the streets
(for it is in London that our scene lies)
Rattling along the housetops
Fiercely agitating the scanty flams of the lamps
The struggled
Against the darkness.

This is not a photograph

Except of course it is.

“And what is good, Phaedrus, And what is not good—
Need we ask anyone to tell us these things?” (Robert Pirsig)