Misty water-colored memories of...uhh, what was I talking about?

So I’m making this stuff referred to as “Vangie’s Original Brazilian Black Beans & Rice,” which is the “everything but the kitchen sink” recipe I referred to yesterday.
Among the ingredients are diced red peppers, diced garlic cloves, parsley, oregano, and basil. Those are in addition to a pound and a half of black beans and a pound of beef stew meat, a pound of sausage meat, a pound of pork, and a pound of diced ham.
The recipe actually calls for even more ingredients than that, but I’m not a big fan of onions, I’m allergic to bay leaves, and I don’t have any cloves (nor did I feel the need to pick any up).
The actual preparation has involved browning the different kinds of meat, then throwing the whole concoction into a crock pot (or in my case, my kick-ass “Kitchen Kettle,” which can serve as a crock pot, vegetable steamer, or deep fryer) and letting it boil for a couple of hours, then slowly cooking for a minimum of an additional six hours.
I still have about four hours to go, but a little bit ago when I was stirring it I decided to see how it’s coming along. I tried a piece of beef, and all I can say is “Holy crap!”
It was SO good that my knees started to buckle. It just melted in my mouth, leaving behind this incredible flavor.
When it’s finished I’ll serve it over brown rice, and I’ll have enough leftovers to feed myself for a very long time.
When I was putting it all together this morning I realized, “Damn, that’s a hell of lot of meat.”
Ten minutes later I realized that I’d forgotten the ham, so it was even more meat than I thought.
I’m not sure what’s on the menu for tomorrow or Thursday, though frequently I don’t bother cooking on Thursday.
If I decide to, though, I’ve got lots of chicken in my freezer, along with some ground beef and some pork chops. Maybe I’ll pick up some bell peppers and spaghetti and make Pork Chops with Hot and Sweet Peppers with Caccia y Pepe Spaghetti.
That’s a recipe I got from the Food Network. The recipe I saw called for Spaghetti Squash rather than actual spaghetti (in the interest of lower carbs), but I’ve found that the Spaghetti Squash doesn’t take to being frozen very well, so I typically say “Carbs be damned” when I make it.
Anyway, that’s enough about my culinary exploits.
Last night, as I was writing up my little anecdote about the girl (her name was Mary) that I went out with those two times a few years ago, I was thinking about a friend of mine and his frequent criticism of me for “dwelling on the past” and “picking at old wounds.”
In all honesty, I don’t really see myself as dwelling on the past. Certainly not to an extent that interferes with my daily existence.
And it’s not as though I continually go back to the SAME memory over and over again. Rather, circumstances in my present existence simply spark a memory of a particular event, or even an entire period, in my past, and I just follow the train of thought to wherever it leads.
The sparking of memory isn’t exactly a voluntary event, so I have little control over it. I suppose that, to satisfy his mandate that I never, ever think about anything other than what’s immediately in front of me, I could refuse to allow myself to remember, to steadfastly resist the tide of memory.
But towards what end?
What would I gain by refusing to remember my past? Ideally, I suppose, I would gain a freedom from the pain of my own personal history, though at the same time I would lose all sense of self, of my very “Jon-ness.”
Maybe it’s a decent trade off, but I don’t think that it’s even possible without the use of extreme amounts of medication and/or a lobotomy.
We have memories for a reason, I think, and if, as mentioned, the examination of them isn’t interfering with my life, what’s wrong with taking a look at them after they come up unbidden? Or on the other end of the spectrum, what’s so wrong with actively dredging them up?
If anything, the maxim “Those who forget the past are condemned to repeat it” springs to mind, leading me to believe that the examination of my memories serves a useful purpose.
Besides, for the purposes of the blog, if I stuck only to what was currently going on in my life, I would have very little to write about.
So I have to draw on my memories and look into the past if I want this blog to be even remotely interesting.
The past is where most of my best stories are. Sure, there might be some better ones ahead of me, but not being precognitive, I’ll have to wait until they’re in the past to tell them.
And it’s not as if I’m sitting around feeling depressed as I remember each and every individual hurt I’ve felt over the past 32 years. I used to do that, to some extent, when I was drinking, but now when I look back on my memories (admittedly, most of which DO involve some sort of pain, but hey, that’s my life), it’s usually with a kind of bitter amusement more than anything else.
So I would say that his admonitions against dwelling on the past are about as useful and well-considered as his advice on dating and relationships. Or pretty much ANY topic, for that matter. Let’s face it, when it comes to advice, he’s no “Dear Abby,” which I think he fully realizes, and as a result will take no offense at my good-natured ribbing (or my making use of him as a starting off point for an entry).
In any case, even if he does take offense, if he follows his own advice, he’ll refuse to ever think about it after it’s in the past anyway.
But, to continue the ribbing, and to segue into a point, I think part of his contempt for “dwelling on the past” is the fact that his memory is full of holes, so, given his total LACK of recall, it’s no wonder he views examining the past as a wasted effort.
After all, how can you spend time examining the past if you can’t remember it?
Seriously, the guys got holes in his memory that entire decades must be able to fall through. Sometimes I’m amazed that he remembers his own name.
Throughout the years people have commented on the acuity of my memory. My mind is a repository for all manner of trivia on an incredibly wide range of topics, with the most notable example, as mentioned in an earlier post, being my near-encyclopedic knowledge of comic books.
But beyond remembering who played what role in which movie, or who sang what song, I remember all manner of other minutiae of my own existence, dating as far back as the crib.
The clarity varies, with that largely drunken period from 1995 to 2000 being the haziest, but I at least have a general impression of a LOT of things.
And yet, more often than not, I’m stricken not so much by the overwhelming weight of too many memories, but rather with the overwhelming lack of them.
I am, at most times, keenly aware of just how imperfect my memory is, and just how fuzzy my own view of the complete tapestry of my existence truly is and how much of the pattern is totally unseen.
So often when people comment (frequently with an undercurrent of disdain and contempt) on just how amazing my memory is, I’m forced to think of all of the times I find myself getting up and walking into the kitchen and standing there for minutes at a time in absolute puzzlement as to WHY I just got up and walked into the kitchen, and I can’t help but wonder how, if my eidetic prowess is so much greater than the norm, anyone can manage to function at all. Mnemonic devices? Notes? Recorded messages?
In imagining “normal” people having to leave notes lying around for themselves in order to function (“Your name is Ted. The woman who was lying in the bed next to you is (probably) your wife, Terri.” “This is the refrigerator. You keep food here.” “You need to eat food in order to live.” “Don't forget to breathe.” “Put one foot in front of the other. Repeat. This is called walking.”), I’m reminded of a story I read a number of years ago.
(There he goes flaunting his memory again...)
It was by Piers Anthony, and it was entitled “Mute.”
Mute, in this case, referred to the fact that the title character was a mutant. One characteristic of his mutation was that, in his case “out of sight, out of mind” was a fact of his existence. Essentially he emitted some sort of field that prevented any interaction with him from being committed to a person's long-term memory.
As soon as he walked away, you would forget that you’d ever met him.
Naturally this made his existence difficult.
At his job, after explaining his situation to his secretary, she began taking extensive notes on her interactions with him, including a physical description, which she would refer to in order to properly function in her position.
If I recall correctly, which I may or may not, there was a certain irony in that his own memory was flawless.
I felt a certain kinship with the character, whose actual name, fittingly enough, I don’t remember. Part of the kinship stemmed from the fact that his body was asymmetrical. For example, on one hand he had five fingers and on the other he had six.
While not nearly so extreme, I have some degree of asymmetry in my basic form as well, and there have been many times that I’ve felt just as forgettable, particularly when people fail to remember my name.
I mean, it’s Jon. How the hell hard can it be to remember that? It’s one of the most common names in the world. Sure, it’s spelled different than most people expect it to be spelled, but even so, it shouldn’t be that hard to remember, no matter how incredibly bad your memory is.
Anyway, there was a point to all of this, but you know, I’ll be damned if I can remember what it was…