Did Something Just Happen?

How do we want to remember things? 

I've been asking myself this question today, after seeing David Lynch's Lost Highway. There's one scene in particular that stands out. If you want to get an idea of the scene, have a listen to what Bill Pullman says about 40 seconds in to this trailer: 

"I like to remember things my own way. Not necessarily the way they happened"

Take a look around you. Are you in your room? If you aren't, and for the sake of this blog, let's say you are at a coffee shop or a library, have a look at this. In particular, watch the video partway down. It's a great article so give it a read-over. Sorta explains the picture I used in the background for the site, and also where I got the name for the website URL.

Are you home yet? If not, here's another splendid video. I'm an avid drum freak, and just learned that Joe Morello passed away. He was one of the greats, real innovative in playing around odd time signatures. Here's how I'll always remember him.

So, those are two great videos, one from my favourite movie and one from one of my biggest drum inspirations. You'd think that after all this time I could remember the first time I saw them. They say that you always remember the first time you hear a classic song. I think The Boss says it best when he talks about the first time he heard "Like A Rolling Stone":

"The first time I heard Bob Dylan, I was in the car with my mother listening to WMCA, and on came that snare shot that sounded like somebody'd kicked open the door to your mind"

Nicely put, Bruce. But back to those first three clips. I can't remember for the life of me the first time I saw Barton Fink or the first time I heard a Joe Morello drum solo. They stick in my head as significant, and if push came to shove, I could create a narrative where I remember seeing Barton Fink for the first time and promptly devoured the works of Faulkner, Odets and Arendt ("I'll show you the Life of the Mind!").

But I can't.

I credit this film and Mr.Morello's loopy solo as two of my biggest inspirations, and they most certainly are. But I can't remember the first time I experienced them. Barton Fink and Joe Morello just kind of came in to focus when I got down to thinking what my favourite film was and who my favourite drummer might be. 

We are a culture of lists. Over the past decade, with a seemingly endless source of internet IP addresses, we decided we had to have a best-of list for everything. Which meant we had to give meaning to things and consider how they inspired us. 

Now, are you back home? Are you in your room? For the purposes of this blog, let's say you are. Do you have a picture of you, your friends or your family nearby? I've got one on my desk. It's a picture of my family and I in Pompeii.

I remember this trip fondly. It was only three years ago. But I can't remember why my brother is wearing my t-shirt (it would be ten sizes too big on him) or why my sister is wearing my baseball cap. Are these details important? Not really. But I can't help but ask myself these questions every time I look at the photo. I asked my siblings these questions the other day, and they have no idea. Something from the original moment of the photo being taken has been lost forever. All that's left are these idealized memories.

Some things ARE beter left idealized. RIP MJ.

But even those are fading away, because we rely on tangible items like photos to help us remember. We rely on best-of lists to remember what our favourite movie was in 2002.

Good God, you guys. CHICAGO? Really?

Photos fade. Hell, we've become a generation of blogs of faded photos. In a couple of years from now, I won't be able to make out whether my brother is wearing a Slug Club hat or a Spiderman hat. (It's a Slug Club hat. Nerd.) (PS, Davis, I threw your blog in there because I love it and in no way did I mean the "faded photos" thing in a negative connotation)

The details will be gone and the memories will become more idealized. The family picture at Pompeii will become a symbol of "the Most Magical Trip Ever", but all I can really talk about is memories.  I'll have my copy of Barton Fink, but I won't be able to talk about the first time I saw it. This freaks me out, but at the same time, I have no problem with it. Because I will hardly be able to remember this moment in a year from now. Not in the way I'd like to. If it's remembered at all, it will be idealized. Not the way it was, but the way I want to remember it.

I took the title of this blog, It Will Shock You How Much It Never Happened, from one of my favourite episodes of one of my favourite shows, Mad Men. 10 years from now, will I remember that? Probably not. And it doesn't freak me out because I won't remember it. Not in the way I'd like to. The memory will fade, become idealized and then vanish. Will it shock me How Much It Never Happened? Maybe at first.