Stacking Images in My Mind
44: On Memory and Being Present
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London is a map of chicken wire streets, in contrast to planned cities like New York or Philadelphia, which are grids. London cabbies spend years studying for their exam1, weaving amongst these streets and over time, developing an uncanny memory for every nook and landmark, resulting in brain growth specific to memory in the hippocampus. It’s a special ability and not all of us, in fact most of us, can’t remember roads that well, so the advent of GPS for lay use evened the stakes for even the worst navigator.
GPS threatens the study and tradition of cabbies by hampering that recollection2, but they aren’t alone. Taking more pictures reduces the brain’s ability to remember events3. Collectively, we rely on technology to capture our history and steer our path instead of storing it ourselves. I thought about this one day on a solo day out. I didn’t want to snap all these portrait photos of charming storefronts or blurred, bustling streets. I wanted to more organically commit the time to memory. Another part of it was practicing being present. We are often distracted during the business of capturing life and broadcasting it. How can a lavender latte be enjoyed if I don’t post it in my instagram stories? Will I remember a moment with my children if they don’t pose?
These questions prompted a memory and meditation exercise.
My reservation for one was at 5:30pm right when dinner service started. I arrived painfully early, not wanting to be late when I needed to walk all the way across town to get there. It was still dark inside the restaurant, so I pulled up a map to see what was in the area to see while I waited.
A few blocks away was a crime museum which boasted a small collection of weapons, photos, and illustrations of famous gangster and mafioso of the early 20th century. The building facade looked like an old New York City walk up with wrought iron gates at the bottom of stone steps. I rung the bell twice and no one answered. Seized by the anxiety of having rung the wrong apartment or somehow come on a day they were closed, I headed down the steps and shut the gate.
Back at the restaurant’s outside enclosure, I planned out some compositions on the mobile version of Scrivener until the door finally opened and the host brought me in. The restaurant was much smaller than I expected, but it was Manhattan and if you found 2000 square feet for a reasonable rent, the only sensible thing to do was accept it gladly and make it work. Boy, did they.
The bar was faded gold with a chandelier of wine glasses above, bordered by olive green curtains. On the smooth bar top were the dance lines of many of those glasses and a tiny dishes of pronoun pins. I chose “she/her” as I took my seat.
Everywhere were shades of pink and red, living and playful. Dried roses, lilies and baby’s breath in a fanned out bouquet at the bar’s end, caught the intense early evening light and revealed deep pink tones. A black skull overlooked the restaurant’s booths at its perch. To my right, faint blush walls were awash with halos of light emanating from domed fixtures. The oblong front window with olive green borders overlooked the brick face of an apartment building across the street.
I took a single photo.
To my left was a tiny kitchen with three people sliding past each other like smooth stones and cooking up big flavors. I could smell little from where I sat but saw the chef using long forceps to plate delicate dishes. I knew from laboratory catalogs that those forceps alone were close to $100.
I was the first and only customer in the restaurant. I sat and breathed deeply, taking in the details and tucking them into my head.
Remember.
Remember.
A thin and fragile-looking wine glass was placed before me. On the suggestion of my server Cat, I chose a wine-based Negroni garnished with an orange twist, again, a deep red pink. Deciding on what to eat was a conversation. Like any serious food establishment, it was not just about the flavor, but the journey, the complimentary flavors, how my mood directed my choices. We batted choices briefly back and forth until I decided on my courses.
Amuse bouche: fermented carrot, potato, and mushroom with a vinegar aroma
Dinner roll: warm rosemary bread with chili
Starter: tempeh with a rich, dense, layered texture, and savory taste
Main course: Pork medallions with soft as pillow potatoes drenched in butter sauce
Dessert: Lily pads of chocolate mousse topped with vanilla cookies with a piped spiral of banana purée, and charred mousse
Each dish was small, so it was necessary to pause between bites to flood my senses.
I caught the eye of a chef who must have noticed I was deep in thought, almost troubled. I relaxed my face.
“I am contemplating it as I’m sure you’d like your customers to do,” I said.
They paused and considered my comment. “Yes and no. First, it has to be yummy…”“What I love is it’s not too high. It’s accessible.”
They pointed in my direction and smiled as an earring swayed just above their shoulder. I thanked my gracious hosts and left a good tip before slipping out just as the restaurant filled up.
For me, moments have imbued music and each song is a meditation. The bright symphonies of morning are dotted with a whimsical flute. But whenever the sun recedes and a gray cast hangs over the city, right before the streetlights come on, it feels the right time to play Simon and Garfunkel’s Bridge Over Troubled Water. “The Boxer” usually comes first especially if I’m near 7th Avenue, followed by “El Condor Pasa (If I Could)”, then “So Long, Frank Lloyd Wright” and finally, my favorite “Only Living Boy in New York”. The last song always dips me into a comfortable melancholy. It reminds me of a friend whose resignation and eventual departure I pre-mourned years before it happened.
The pace of Simon and Garfunkel makes me want to bound up the steps of a brownstone, open a tall door, and enter a brightly painted second floor apartment to look out onto the street from a bay window. It’s a cozy vision in my mind where I drift off to sleep under a warm blanket. But I don’t live in Manhattan. Not even close, so as much I love that feeling, there’s usually a distance for me to travel and I need to get my heart rate up.
I completely switched gears to “This is America” by Childish Gambino, scanning everything from empty basketball courts to massive murals on the sides of old brick buildings. My vision sharpened and as gloaming descended, I kept my attention more keen and my steps in time with the beat. Next was “Alright” by Kendrick Lamar and I contemplated how to recreate a liberated world. I thought about freedom as an active process and that in order to maintain it, we needed to be students of history and know that none of a country’s framers were infallible.
I picked up the pace with “Day & Nite” by Kid Cudi and imaged a technicolor undercurrent to the night. Not all is dark. There is color wherever you look, whether illuminated by evening lights and in the buzz of a million things happening at once on the island. I pressed on, just wandering and taking in the evening.
I didn’t realize how far I’d walked during that day until my watch tapped its congratulations. By that time I was slowing down as adrenaline seeped down to empty. The last track before I made the train home was “Circles” by Mac Miller. I thought about the cycles I’d kept choosing to repeat and whether I’d ever get out. Was I capable of radical change? Did I have the courage to be uncomfortable? Our circles are well trodden ground we’re used to so it’s hard to divert onto a new path. It takes a great deal of courage to get uncomfortable and beat along paths in the bush where you’re not familiar. We are forced to learn that it was the clean path that bound us, not the tall grass.
It’s getting pretty late
Getting pretty late…
It was. I was ready to go home.
How have you been trying to improve your memory?
What’s next?
Envisioning the future
Students of history (short fiction)
Subscriber podcast episode (fiction)
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Twitter (waiting for Black Twitter to do the repast)
Scientific American: Cache Cab: Taxi Drivers' Brains Grow to Navigate London's Streets
Do y’all need proper citations? Cuz this week… 🥱😴
Beautiful, Chevanne!
I love this vignette of taking yourself out on the town. I remember that feeling of quickening my pace but at the same time soaking in all the details. When I lived in Chicago as a college student, solo trips walking around the city were my favorite pastime.