Sense Of Scents
The rush of memories (and nostalgia) triggered by the olfactory system is prolly the most accurate of all, mainly because it is not a deliberate attempt at memory recall but more of a reflex; conscious attempts to call up memories are, I think, likely to cause the fabrication of memory.
Most people have selective memories: they (sometimes) consciously to choose to disremember events, especially unpleasant ones. Other times, the wish for what might or could have been can be so strong, a person cannot accurately differentiate between what had really happened, and what they'd wished would happen. (I think most people wouldn't really care to make that distinction anyway, especially if the fabricated memory is so much sweeter.) There are even times I can't tell if a memory is that of reality or that of a dream because I remember dreams quite well.
I wonder where I'd be and what I'd become if and when I get Alzheimer's and lose all my memories, both true and untrue - how would I live then, when I think I'm nothing but the sum of my memories?
:::
The first thing that hit me when I entered the elevator was the scent. I can't really describe it beyond finding it a pleasant one, and that I'd thought it was a feminine one. It was faint, barely lingering, and vaguely familiar, left behind by the previous occupant of that elevator. I don't know why, but immediately, I'd remembered those early mornings (dawn, really) I had spent with Alvina waiting for the bus, and riding it.
We had gone to different secondary schools, but somehow found ourselves taking the same bus, 135, when we were in secondary three and/or four. We'd usually meet at the bus stop opposite my flat - deserted mostly, since it before sunrise - and as we waited for the bus, we'd talk. I don't remember what we'd talked about, but I do remember (frequently) lecturing her on sitting with her legs closed, and she'd grumble that she was wearing shorts under her pinaform, so what did it matter anyway. (Sorry, Alvina, I must've driven you nuts; why you never pushed me in front of a speeding bus I've never known.)
I'd really appreciated those bus-rides together, but they never appeared in my journals because I think I'd taken them for granted. (Another lesson in how even the most ordinary of events, even if they'd occurred regularly, would one day become nothing but a memory that may or may not be recalled no matter how hard one tries.) My journals are filled with experiences and feelings that had seemed extraordinary then, things I'd thought I'd like to read back on; silly me didn't have the foresight to see how when things have come to pass and gone for good, even the littlest detail of everyday life will become a (sometimes unattainable) treasure.
I've no idea why that particular scent triggered that particular memory. Life is kind and thoughtful that way sometimes - you never know when it chooses to surprise you with a sense of wonder; the only thing you can do is to let yourself be surprised and appreciate it.
Most people have selective memories: they (sometimes) consciously to choose to disremember events, especially unpleasant ones. Other times, the wish for what might or could have been can be so strong, a person cannot accurately differentiate between what had really happened, and what they'd wished would happen. (I think most people wouldn't really care to make that distinction anyway, especially if the fabricated memory is so much sweeter.) There are even times I can't tell if a memory is that of reality or that of a dream because I remember dreams quite well.
I wonder where I'd be and what I'd become if and when I get Alzheimer's and lose all my memories, both true and untrue - how would I live then, when I think I'm nothing but the sum of my memories?
The first thing that hit me when I entered the elevator was the scent. I can't really describe it beyond finding it a pleasant one, and that I'd thought it was a feminine one. It was faint, barely lingering, and vaguely familiar, left behind by the previous occupant of that elevator. I don't know why, but immediately, I'd remembered those early mornings (dawn, really) I had spent with Alvina waiting for the bus, and riding it.
We had gone to different secondary schools, but somehow found ourselves taking the same bus, 135, when we were in secondary three and/or four. We'd usually meet at the bus stop opposite my flat - deserted mostly, since it before sunrise - and as we waited for the bus, we'd talk. I don't remember what we'd talked about, but I do remember (frequently) lecturing her on sitting with her legs closed, and she'd grumble that she was wearing shorts under her pinaform, so what did it matter anyway. (Sorry, Alvina, I must've driven you nuts; why you never pushed me in front of a speeding bus I've never known.)
I'd really appreciated those bus-rides together, but they never appeared in my journals because I think I'd taken them for granted. (Another lesson in how even the most ordinary of events, even if they'd occurred regularly, would one day become nothing but a memory that may or may not be recalled no matter how hard one tries.) My journals are filled with experiences and feelings that had seemed extraordinary then, things I'd thought I'd like to read back on; silly me didn't have the foresight to see how when things have come to pass and gone for good, even the littlest detail of everyday life will become a (sometimes unattainable) treasure.
I've no idea why that particular scent triggered that particular memory. Life is kind and thoughtful that way sometimes - you never know when it chooses to surprise you with a sense of wonder; the only thing you can do is to let yourself be surprised and appreciate it.
posted by s at 11:14
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