Mind-less

In the face of old age this past weekend, I couldn’t’ help but wonder about the makings of the human mind. In particular, memories. My Dad was driving us around Calgary and I was reflecting on the many times I’ve been there, and all the memories of the back of my father’s head while he drove. The memories seem endless. Obviously they are not, but it is interesting how childhood memories feel so infinite. Maybe it is because the childhood brain hasn’t fully developed, but it is a little more interesting to view it from a philosophical standpoint. The mind collects but doesn’t quantify at such an early age. And even the term ‘collects’ isn’t appropriate. Most collectors can put a number to the items and even characteristics of their treasures. But the childhood mind masses memories into a ubiquitous blob. And in this age of classification, where each subset is carefully delineated, I find it hard to reconcile my need to classify with my inability to.

I can’t help but see poetry to the end of my grandmother’s life. Alzheimer’s is slowly ravaging her brain and is only leaving her this innocent conglomerate of childhood memories to depart this world. In her conscious state, she will leave much the same way she entered. The parallel is uncanny, and even cruel. But I think reliving those experiences may in fact be a blessing. The mind granting a gift to its host. A gift, even, to those close to her. Diseases like Alzheimer’s are a crescendo of staccato notes blaring at us with all their intensity, reminding us not to sweat the small stuff. All the chaos, all the seeming turmoil of life and its decisions won’t matter to my Grandmother when she finally leaves us. All that will matter are her memories and the collection of people around her – shades of her past or not.

And in the end, the mind decides it all for her – as does all of our minds. This super organ acting the rules of God.

It’s funny to see that it takes our childhood last, as a reminder of that blob of memories. For some reason whenever I think of this, the image of my father’s head driving the car always pops into my head. A metaphor for the direction of my life? Not likely...but I do know that many of my happy memories are from that view – looking at him driving a car, anxious for the end of whatever road we were taking. And although I’m not anxious for the end of my life’s road, at least I can be at peace with the knowledge that my childhood innocence can be tapped into through these memories. Even if it is the last thing my mind leaves me.

Yan

I wrote this for Yan when I was in England, and I feel even stronger about it now, knowing that we are spending our lives together. I love you Yan!



I don’t know where to begin. How to say it...I just don’t have the same talent for words as you do. I look down to my keyboard. Frustrated. Lost. Nothing comes out. “Damn it” I speak aloud. I hear the vibrations of someone’s alarm next door, urging me that time is always watching. Never waiting. Always passing.

I remember the days we spent together. The times we laughed. Your constant jokes. Moments of intimacy and moments of passion. So infused that I can never tell which one is which. Which one is real. All I know is the great emotions I feel towards you. Always changing. Growing but not weaning. Evolving into a confused mass that I can’t seem to understand. If only I could grasp it and understand it. “Then you would understand” I find myself saying aloud.

But I was determined. I would write you something. Poetry seems lost to me in these academic days. It’s hard to write something when all you do is read and criticize. Read and criticize. Pull apart and reconstruct. How tender was life when I wrote those words to you? How easy? How close...

I picture your face and the words I would use to describe it. Masculine. Determined. Strong. But behind that face stands a man. A child. The person I love. Your weaknesses and fears all apparent as you confide in me day by day. Confidence. Loyalty. None of it sums up who you are.

I remember the words on your mirror. Words that brought me closer to you when I first walked into your space. The place you have defined as your own. I thought it so amazing that one could surreptitiously learn so much about another through their choices of living. And yet get everything wrong. Who was I to judge when my room seems to lack the true reflection of me? Then again, is there ever a true effigy?

I think about what all this means. It is hard not to look and yearn to the past for inspiration. Especially when it is history that has always inspired me. My past with you contains nothing but happiness. I know inside that there were other times. Pain. Sadness. Sorrow. Longing. But these times are all erased in the face of what you mean to me and what I feel for you.

And I grasp at it again. That thin explanation that seems to hover in my mind. Telling me what it is, but mockingly drawing away each inch I move towards it. Close. Far. Close. Far.

I know what I feel for you is strong. I know it is here. I reach out to you, looking for answers. But you aren’t here. You are at home. Where I should be... At your side... But the independent side of me tore me from you. And I cannot argue against what I am. You have never tried. Yet I still fight. Against reason and your better judgment. More of your virtues: Acceptance. Patience.

“Damn it”. I say again. The room gets darker. Time is chasing me now. Faster. Stronger. The more alive time feels, the more alive my fingers become. I do not understand it. I don’t try to. I just write and watch as the words come. No editing. No backspace. Space. Word. Space. Word. The end never in sight.

“I just can’t get it” I think aloud. Then I remember your encouragement. Your hand on the small of my back reassuring me forward. A very conservative, archaic motion, with modern insistence. You were always good at letting me find my own solutions. Leading the way. Teaching. Guiding.

It is like you are everything to me. All emotions. All descriptions. Picking some in no way defines who you are, and in picking all I lose your essence. Who you are will never truly be described by anyone. I doubt even you could describe who you are with distinct accuracy. I think back on lessons of long ago. Ice breakers in grade school. Ironic.

And like you, my feelings towards you will never be understood. Never written to perfection. I do not in any way believe I could convey it properly. But so many try. So many writings. Poems. Songs. Novels. I just can’t seem to grasp it enough. But did they grasp it either? I doubt it. No one would question love if love was understood. There would be nothing left to write.

All I know is I love you. You are the best and worst part of me. You inspire my life and destroy it as ‘my’ becomes ‘our’. Love. Affection. Longing. All of these are as much a part of me as you. As those of the past who tried to define love. Of those who have come and gone. All the while searching for meaning.

I look to the end of the page on the computer screen. And I know there is only one appropriate way to end this. My story is you.

My Last Lecture?

I spent today reading The Last Lecture by Randy Pausch, and as he predicted, I began to wonder what I would lecture on.

I always had the notion that if I was ‘lucky’ enough to know that I was dying, I would write letters. I would write to all the wonderful people in my life. I would tell them how their influence pushed me to achieve my dreams, how their words motivated me, and how they held me up when I was having trouble reconciling life with my perceived vision of how it should be.

I would write to all the people I had hurt and offer my sincerest apologies. I wouldn’t ask for forgiveness, I wouldn’t even try to explain why I felt things ended the way they did between us. I would simply apologize and tell them what wonderful people they are, and how I appreciated them being in my life.

I would write to all the people that had hurt me. I wouldn’t say they had hurt me. I wouldn’t even offer forgiveness, unless they asked. I would tell them how they influenced me to become the person I am and how they themselves are good people.

All these letter would be hand written. My personal touch to a legacy of people I met along my path.

But a lecture?

A lecture is something completely different. Last Lectures are supposed to impart some sort of wisdom to an audience of people that are likely 80% strangers. My letter legacy would only address the significant people in my own life, in a sort of selfish way. A Last Lecture is meant to be selfless, to teach people and help them live better through the speaker’s sufferings. But what would I lecture about?

In my 23 years of life I haven’t gained much wisdom. I can teach people about my philosophy on life, about determination, and about motivation, but what student can’t? I am not wise in a conventional or even nonconventional sense. I haven’t reached a point in my life where I would have that kind of advice to give, that kind of motivational speech that is meant to make others move for the betterment of their lives.

I don’t think wisdom necessarily comes from adversity. It can come from an upbringing, a shocking event, or even just compassion from watching someone else. I hope that in time I will become wise, that I will have an answer to what kind of lecture I would deliver, but I also know that time doesn’t equate learning or wisdom. And in my selfish survival instinct, I don’t want a terminal illness that may bring wisdom. I would chose to survive over imparting words to strangers.

So in short Dr. Pausch, thank you so much for sharing your words, your wisdom. The Last Lecture will stick with me as I continue to contemplate mine.

They always say that time is what you make of it. I just hope that I have enough of it to learn.