(no subject)
I remember once I stopped into the most peculiar of stores.
It had a vaguely familiar, musty smell. Like an unfinished basement. Or that old car smell. Or a cabin that you’ve been to before.
I looked around and found all manner of objects, hanging from the walls, perched on shelves, residing in cages. Animals, cars, furniture, books. Antiques, computers, stones, spoons, and some things I couldn’t even identify.
As I perused the shelves, an old man came up from behind me. He asked if he could help me find something. ‘What is this place?’ I asked.
‘This,’ he answered, ‘is a memory store.’
‘What is that?’ I asked.
‘It’s a store that buys and sells memories.’
I guess that was the obvious answer. But I couldn’t help to wonder, how do you sell memories? Aren’t they intangible?
The old man looked at me like a father explaining a part of life to a child.
Memories have shapes. They have sights, they have textures, they have smells. Memories are as tangible as the next phenomena.
Try to remember your first car. The way it handled. The smell of the leather. The hum over the motor.
Your first trip to the zoo? The heat of the hot summer sun. The primal musk that hung in the air. The fear and awe you felt, looking that big cat straight in the eyes.
Try to remember that first girl. The smell of her perfume or the shampoo she used. The taste of her skin? The warmth under the sheets.
Every memory has a shape,’ he concluded. ‘Simply a matter of how the rememberer expresses it.’
‘But how do you sell a memory?’ I pressed.
‘With currency,’ he replied. ‘Legal tender. An object of equal value and worth. Equivalent exchange. Fair trade.’
‘But what do I have to give you to get a memory?’
‘Equivalent exchange. Another memory. An amount equal to the importance of the memory you’re about to receive.’
‘So I have to give you a memory… in order to keep a memory?’
‘Not just me,’ he cautioned. ‘Every time you make a memory, you have to give up one. Even as a child fresh from your mother, you are constantly bartering dreams and memories for new knowledge, and only you can be the judge of the worthiness of the experience compared to what is lost.’
‘So, you just sell memories?’ I asked.
‘Not always. While we are rarely charitable in giving, we are very willing to take without charge.’
He must have seen the deer in the headlights look on my face, because he continued shortly after pausing.
‘Not every memory you possess, you wish to keep. We will sometimes provide a charitable service to those in need by taking their dreams, free of charge. The balance is the relief they receive. Forgettfulness can be a kind of solace. A balm for the soul. If time heals all wounds, one way it can is by subtracting the pain from those memories we’d rather not endure.’
I had never heard such things before. They weighed heavy as truth, but I did not want to lose them. I decided that I wanted to keep this memory-to keep te knowledge I had gleaned from this encounter.
‘What would I have to trade to keep this memory?’ I asked. ‘If I don’t want to trade any of my memories for what you have in this store, I just want this one, what would I have to give you?’
The old man smiled. ‘I don’t think a price will be too hard to figure out. Come with me into the back and I’ll draw up the contract.’
With that, I remember talking. I remember signing. I remember having a drink after that. I remember everything I saw in that store, clear as crystal-the wares, the smells, the kindly old man who gave me those deep thoughts.
But for the life of me, I can’t remember what I forgot.
It had a vaguely familiar, musty smell. Like an unfinished basement. Or that old car smell. Or a cabin that you’ve been to before.
I looked around and found all manner of objects, hanging from the walls, perched on shelves, residing in cages. Animals, cars, furniture, books. Antiques, computers, stones, spoons, and some things I couldn’t even identify.
As I perused the shelves, an old man came up from behind me. He asked if he could help me find something. ‘What is this place?’ I asked.
‘This,’ he answered, ‘is a memory store.’
‘What is that?’ I asked.
‘It’s a store that buys and sells memories.’
I guess that was the obvious answer. But I couldn’t help to wonder, how do you sell memories? Aren’t they intangible?
The old man looked at me like a father explaining a part of life to a child.
Memories have shapes. They have sights, they have textures, they have smells. Memories are as tangible as the next phenomena.
Try to remember your first car. The way it handled. The smell of the leather. The hum over the motor.
Your first trip to the zoo? The heat of the hot summer sun. The primal musk that hung in the air. The fear and awe you felt, looking that big cat straight in the eyes.
Try to remember that first girl. The smell of her perfume or the shampoo she used. The taste of her skin? The warmth under the sheets.
Every memory has a shape,’ he concluded. ‘Simply a matter of how the rememberer expresses it.’
‘But how do you sell a memory?’ I pressed.
‘With currency,’ he replied. ‘Legal tender. An object of equal value and worth. Equivalent exchange. Fair trade.’
‘But what do I have to give you to get a memory?’
‘Equivalent exchange. Another memory. An amount equal to the importance of the memory you’re about to receive.’
‘So I have to give you a memory… in order to keep a memory?’
‘Not just me,’ he cautioned. ‘Every time you make a memory, you have to give up one. Even as a child fresh from your mother, you are constantly bartering dreams and memories for new knowledge, and only you can be the judge of the worthiness of the experience compared to what is lost.’
‘So, you just sell memories?’ I asked.
‘Not always. While we are rarely charitable in giving, we are very willing to take without charge.’
He must have seen the deer in the headlights look on my face, because he continued shortly after pausing.
‘Not every memory you possess, you wish to keep. We will sometimes provide a charitable service to those in need by taking their dreams, free of charge. The balance is the relief they receive. Forgettfulness can be a kind of solace. A balm for the soul. If time heals all wounds, one way it can is by subtracting the pain from those memories we’d rather not endure.’
I had never heard such things before. They weighed heavy as truth, but I did not want to lose them. I decided that I wanted to keep this memory-to keep te knowledge I had gleaned from this encounter.
‘What would I have to trade to keep this memory?’ I asked. ‘If I don’t want to trade any of my memories for what you have in this store, I just want this one, what would I have to give you?’
The old man smiled. ‘I don’t think a price will be too hard to figure out. Come with me into the back and I’ll draw up the contract.’
With that, I remember talking. I remember signing. I remember having a drink after that. I remember everything I saw in that store, clear as crystal-the wares, the smells, the kindly old man who gave me those deep thoughts.
But for the life of me, I can’t remember what I forgot.