Occasionally I'm freed by my shoddy memory. People I apparently know turn up with messages on Facebook, and I'll have no idea who he or she is. Predictably, the freedom is fleeting -- ultimately it serves only to remind me that I took way too many drugs during my formative years.
I yearn for unsullied experiences, for a clean thought that inspires an action that's new. Last year, I ate eggs with creme fraiche and pork bellies at a San Francisco restaurant with my foodie friend Jody, and last month I wrote a positive Yelp review just to see if I could. I went out with a really nice guy and I listened to Daydream Nation all the way through. Unfortunately, now, when I think about eggs, I think about nausea; the guy I went out with reminds me of how boring nice can be, and I distrust every five star Yelp review. As for Daydream Nation, I hear the echoes of the 50,000 truisms that keep me in line: one man's trash, to each his own, opinions are like assholes, and if it quacks like a duck, it's Sonic Youth.
Give me an A for effort.
I'm finally at the point where I can accept the lack of novelty inside my head, and, I'm comforted by the knowledge that I'm not alone. I suspect that most of us are plagued by knee jerk memories, and that, for all of us, they pile up and sometimes obscure the view. At a certain age, it's been there, done that, and what's done is done. Except never. Not really.