And I’m not necessarily confining this thought to any one area. Sure, there’s feverish loss of memory — flu is f u with a random letter in the middle, to confuse the spiders and the search bots. And there’s total and utter loss of memory, for whatever reason. Some people build walls around memories to protect themselves, and some of us just have no memory of childhood, for instance. So, the last few days, by and large, are largely hallucinatory creations in my boil-in-bag brain, and great heaping chunks of time before 1985 are just missing from my world.
But what of the really meaningful times in my life, those moments that played a large part in defining who I am now? Do I remember them as they happened, accurately and with as little perceptive slant as I would like to think? And if I do, do I accurately relate said moments to others?
Was talking with a friend about some journals that she found, long ago, belonging to an ex’s ex, and in between pages of high school poetry and whatnot, there were diary entries about days — each entry about the same day would get more and more pronouncedly fictitious. And she says the scary thing about the entries was that what got expounded upon (that’s terrible grammar, I think, but I blame it on the last remnants of the flu) was meaningless and trivial stuff.
I’ve known a few compulsive liars in my life, and mostly, the lies are placed out there to impress. And some lies are told to protect, of course — others, egos, lies of omission…. And I’m crossing the lines here. Someone call Egon, quick… But what is the point of the lie told to an empty room? It serves only to reinforce the lie that one has told oneself.
What a tangled web we weave, when first we practice to deceive.
Shakespeare. What a riot.
Anyone got anymore DayQuil?
(Special thanks to Wade, Jessica, and James for apple-juice-and-soup runs)