Sabbatical reflections, Bio 32, and the evidence at hand. What I like most about memory involves the unfolding and expanding thoughts and feelings that may be triggered, may be engaged, just by looking at such photos as these above or --better yet-- by the objects themselves.
When I handle those underwater survey cards from Fall 2009, I can feel the depths we reached, can see as best I could at the time the murky waters, can resist as I did then the pull of the surge, and so forth. I can revisit the enthusiasm of the class, the high spirits, as we split into teams, geared up, and entered the water.
And, then, there's the mix of memories: the dives; the dive-days, with lunch, coffee-stops, the driving, and the conversations; the cleaning and putting-away of the gear; the house itself; that hardwood flooring and walking across it; all the things I've ever carried or stored in that giant red bucket; the art class, studio, and breakage associated with the octopus; that metal measuring tool for different species of abalone: I've had that particular tool since 1978. And so forth. In the jar, I've sand from Monastery Beach; the big grains are characteristic of that shore, and the memories stretch from this specific collecting to all the times I've been to that beach, including a wild ride in the surf when I was a very young boy. (See the entry "Monastery Beach Memories" for those details; you can click on the appropriate photo in the column to the right for the link.)
And yet, I must confess, I'm starting to get a bit confused whether the memories triggered by that card really belong to Dive #10, say, or an earlier dive that semester. I was participating in a series of training dives off various Monterey beaches and off Salt Point, up on the Sonoma Coast. My memories are not foolproof, though I still think they are fairly accurate, or better, if I take the time to examine and handle such items closely, giving myself time to --what?-- scroll back through the memory-screens, thumb through the memory-files.
I like photos, and I use photos to take me back into time, into past experiences, but artifacts work better, work best.
And that's why I have a garage, study, and office each overfilled with books and stuff. Memory's talismans; flotsam on the sea of Time? What else do you call my mother's PTA scrapbook? I mean, that's a wonderful document of years of service, but can I honor that real work if I just hold onto the title page and a few sample pages? Really?
Perhaps, at this late date in life, I can move towards being a Symbolist and not so much a Materialist. I'm not even going to consider the joys of Minimalism. I'm still not ready.
