I'm
surprised by the details I continue to recall from my American
odyssey, particularly now we're in autumn and I've raced on (at my
own reading speed) to other countries, to other eras, to other
mundane life situations or complications of youth and adulthood
involving other protagonists, but then perhaps I shouldn't even claim
these callbacks as entirely my own because most of the time I don't
try, they come unbidden and out of keeping with whatever I might be
doing at the time or if there is a link it's tenuous, not something
that anyone else would make, let alone comprehend unless explained,
hence the surprise.
And
then there's the element of surprise when I do try, only to find the
detail I want has gone AWOL; the character having told their part of
the story has gone walkabout or the name of the town, now its
existence is neither here or there, has vanished, so that I go around
with a pinched expression as if I'm controlling a mechanical arm in a
concentrated bid to win a toy. I mentally scan, grab the first letter
of the mislaid word, and then cast about for its other fellow letters
or associations. Yesterday the letter in play was 'W': Wing, Wing,
I'm sure it's Wing-something. Wingfield! Is Wingfield a surname? No,
that can't be right, it seems an uncommon sort of name. The doubts
creeping in and indeed persisting until I succumbed to Google and
confirmed my grey matter had triumphed; the irony not lost that I
should trust and seek reassurance from a search engine in the belief
that it will, in all likelihood, lie to me less and cast far less
uncertainties than my own circuitous memory, which I think must be an
irregularity like a mole or a birthmark, for surely I should have
more faith in my own learned knowledge and not have to check it
against some outside resource which may or may not be accurate.
Indeed, both are error-prone and yet one relies more heavily on the
technology-devised brain to give not just clues but concrete facts.
Still,
yesterday I evened up that imbalance though heaven knows I've
forgotten the score. And then, once reassured in my faculty's
retentiveness of useless yet interesting data, I remembered more
without looking, which pleased me no end, since even if this proves
to be nothing more than a memory exercise it should starve off
dementia, as all it needs is a little prod. Doctors should take heed
of that when they ask you questions which have answers you never
cared for then or now. Why the hell would you take the trouble to
retain anything if it held no interest for you? And yes, that might
include the name of the current Prime Minister! I'd rather hang onto
the things I've loved, either by name or image, and not strain to
remember those that matter to me personally very little.
In an
earlier paragraph, I mentioned that my mind is circuitous (I did,
didn't I?!) Well, anyhow, it is and that I've just proved by the
removal of myself from the beaten track to wander with you in the
bush for a while, but now, after several rotations and a few puzzled
compass gazes, I spy the natural path once more and really think we
should return for nightfall is not far off. I've heard there are
bears, and grateful though I am for your company I would not make a
happy camper, although I did take the precaution of bringing a bell
should a bear emergency arise, which I admit to originally thinking
was some kind of folkloric legend. Perhaps now would be the best time
to unpack it from my knapsack but it does rather make one feel like a
school mistress in a yard instructing her charges to stop play
immediately and line up. What if I rung it and then looked behind to
find a line of bears?
A silly
scenario, but then stranger things have happened and been reported.
And nothing in my imagination is out of bounds, I'm freer there than
I am anywhere, though I draw the line at making such things
materialise, but should it happen, well, I'm not to blame. The
circumstances happened to be right and I was just there. If this was
a play, I might employ a screen to project my mental images at
infrequent intervals, like how they used to do in Charlie Chaplin
films, except these wouldn't state but highlight pictorially what's
coming next. Screen: A little silver slipper of a moon under which a
young girl and an older woman stand, because I'm about to rejoin the
Wingfield clan on my armchair travels.
Picture credit: Maggie Cain and Joanne Dubach in Mary-Arrchie's Theatre Co's production of The Glass Menagerie. Photo by Emily Schwartz (Chicago Theatre)