Monthly Archives: February 2007

One of my friends asked me this evening to write something “bonito” when I got home from work. Unfortunately, I am not particularly inspired just now. Nevertheless, I am quite interested in the relationship between memory and perspective — how each act of remembering is an independent experience unto itself, and how any given memory is an ongoing process that is transformed over time and is conditioned by one’s perspective (and vice versa). In other words, there are memories of memories of memories that evolve, decay, or mold into one apparently constant memory. This is much like the way that our physical exterior follows a degree of constancy of form over time, while in reality its actual cellular make-up is in continuous flux. We think of an ever-changing remembrance as one single memory just as we think of a person’s life-span as belonging to one distinct individual.

While I have been working on various pieces related to these topics, instead of posting something fairly unfinished, I decided to post these beautiful lyrics from this song by Lyle Lovett that touch on memory and perspective:

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This is one of my favorite two scenes from the film Lost in Translation where Bill Murry sings “More Than This”. My guess is that Sofia Coppolla put in the karaoke scenes as space fillers because the movie was rather short. Nevertheless, I think that the scene defines the film. I love the subtle complicity between two people who are just getting to know each other, and how at that moment (and so true always of the present), more than this, there is nothing. In any event, my other favorite one is where Murry is lying on the bed with Scarlett Johanssen and tells her, “I am not worried about you.”

Alright, time to start doing something productive with my Saturday.

On this Saturday morning, I woke up at 8:30am, and while alternating between Amin Maalouf’s Rock of Tanois and writing in this wretched blog, I was reminded of a Saturday morning in November back in the 90s. It was a typical autumn morning in Washington, DC, and the air was crisp. I had all of the windows of my apartment open and was thoroughly cleaning the place. I am not sure whether that day has or had any significance whatsoever, but for some reason whenever I listen to Joan Armatrading, I always have the unclear memory of open windows and the DC fall in my mind.

I am certain that I had been listening to Joan Armatrading (as well as certain other music) on that day. Sometimes I remember that day as sunny, and at other times as overcast. But, generally, it is listening to Joan that reminds me of that seemingly insignificant day, whereas now I am recalling that day and being reminded of Joan Armatrading. Does that make any sense?

Back in 1990 during my first year in college when I was living in the dorms, there was this dorky, awkward kid from South Dakota who lived across the hall from me. I don’t remember much about him, except for the fact that he was always talking about Watertown and listening to the The Church. For some strange reason, people are always confessing their problems to me and asking for my unsolicited advice. Over the past couple years whenever they do so, I always think of a few lines from The Church’s “Under the Milky Way”,

I wish I knew what you were looking for
I might have known what you would find

Besides that fact that I am often sought after for this “unsolicited” and un-compensated counsel, no one ever actually follows the advice that I give them. In any event, here is my abridged story:

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