The Cycle of Memory
Somethings I know for certain: smells, music, sights, and magic can stop us and take us back to a memory with such a hold on our present lives that time becomes disputable.
I walk by a man wearing my ex-boyfriend’s cologne. I hear a song from a concert; the first time I did acid. I smell my grandmother’s home fried potatoes. I feel a morning breeze on my little arm hairs that feels like a Saturday so familiar yet so distant to this one I’m currently waking up to; I’m at the cottage with my family; safe and sound and all around.
What I’m curious about is how these memories cycle throughout our lives? When they meet you in new ways, can they expand your present life and maybe even offer healing?
Last week I was having dinner with a group of friends; one of those dinners where no one looks at their phones for its entirety and instead you find yourself snorting from laughter at perfectly timed jokes, jokes that could only be a result of lifetimes of friendship.
There was a man at this table who has long been of romantic interest and when asked what his karaoke song of choice would be he responded, “James Blunt: You’re Beautiful.”
Press 45-minute load, I’m in the cycle.
Spinning around and twisting like a towel that won’t dry in the middle of the winter; damp and stuck at the bottom of the machine.
How do I let go of a memory that feels so cyclical? How do I take myself out of this towel frenzy to become fresh and fluffy and finally, at long last, clean?
Instead, I time travel.
I’m back a few years ago, on a Friday night, so viscerally angry at myself for gaining ten pounds, leaving me with no clothes that fit.
I’m supposed to have been out the door twenty minutes ago. I’m stomping around our little 400-square-foot apartment adding more clothes, that I hate and could not possibly ever wear again, to a pile in the living room. I’m looking in the long-standing mirror, huffing and puffing when the speaker in the kitchen starts playing “My life is brilliant. My love is pure. I saw an angel, of that, I’m sure.”
My boyfriend at the time starts singing, from the couch, “You’re beautiful, you’re beautiful it’s true.”
The frustration eases, I laugh. He is so ridiculous.
The song became our anthem anytime I felt insecure, obsolete, or just obese. “You’re Beautiful” was his way of putting words to a feeling that he could never say without song. Lyrics of encouragement and kindness without himself ever having to do the talking. Any time I would start to complain or reflect he would just press play on full blast in an attempt to make me laugh.
I’m back sitting at the dinner table, present day, wondering: if there are roughly over 250 million songs could it be coincidence that this new man would pick that exact same song? Or is it the universe intentionally telling me to get back into this cycle of memory and fluff it up until I come out clean.
Can we attach new meaning to memory? Can pain be replaced as time goes on?
this is so sweet, Mads! I feel that yes, we can attach new meaning to memory. I have been in this exact position where memories — intertwined with music especially— have shifted over the years. I couldn't listen to one of my favourite artists for some time after a break up from a significant relationship, but then found a way to reconnect to it through my new partner, in a totally different setting (funnily enough by listening to the albums in the early hours after a night out to wind down). Those earlier memories are still there but now they're a little less painful, more nostalgic and sweet.