Memory strings in the simulated universe
-or- What's keeping me up tonight!
Aside from noticing the changes in LJ format, I was recently learning about a concept called Simulated Reality. Not entirely new to me in theory, but I had no idea people were putting so much work into it. Then again maybe they weren't. Maybe this is the latest update to my sim. Since then, I've seen postings for articles on the subject cropping up in my browser.
[But now I'm plagued with all these issues about my memory.]
I have exactly two real memories of my Great Grandmother. I have three of my Great Grandfather. The first one is of them together. Then one of him alone. And for each, seeing their bodies at their funerals.
I spent the first five years of my life living in grandparents home with my teenage mother and aunts and uncles always around. I distinctly recall the importance of the moment to me. I felt as if me of the future was sending me at the age of four the message that I needed to remember this. I recall feeling as though I was encouraged to stay out of sight, or out of the way. I think there was concern that I might overwhelm these aged people with my presence. They were visiting for something, and everything was even more carefully spotless than usual. They were coming in through the front door, and I was nervous and excited in the kitchen. I wanted to wait for proper manners to be let in, but I somehow knew they wouldn't let me in. And I was sure that me meeting them that day was the most important connection that would be made that day. I feel sure I'd met them before, but this would be the only lasting memory I was going to be able to keep. I was not going to let it go by. I rounded that house and went into the living room with the conviction that I NEEDED to burn every detail I could into my brain for my future self. They walked into the room, and the gold of the sunlight and the red curtains, and the overhead light was on too, so it was some very well lit sunny room. They were well lit from above and backlit enough to glow, and the squeak of the door, and the sound of a screen door, and them in the room, and me running in and out of that room, trying to stay as close to them as I could get away with. As close as my courage would let me. It broke my heart to have to wait a whole room away and watch them from the dining room. I tried to listen. I wanted to spend the time touching them some how. But I barely did. I don't even remember getting eye contact. But the way they looked, and the way the rest of the people made them so important, that I remember. Her hair like a halo or a cloud. The way they stood and sat together. His hard face. The gold and red and brightness of the room. The distinct upsetting feeling like I should cry for all the bits and pieces of this memory I was not going to keep. The unraveling darkness at the edges of my mind. That's what I kept.
The next memory I have of my Great Grandfather, is going with my Grandfather to see his dad in the nursing home. It was actually something we did a number of times, but they all blend together and I only really retain now the one experience, and the feeling like it was neither the first time, nor the last. We went up a windy flight of stairs to get to a door with the knob all the way at the top of the door. This scared me a bit, knowing I would have no way to get out. That door was solid, and that knob was scary high up. And it didn't look like normal doorknobs. I could reach it if I was lifted up. But not by myself. I would be trapped in there once I was in there. And I was only vaguely aware that it was designed to keep the infirm residents from reaching it either. They all seemed trapped and contained in their chairs or beds, or cots or whatever. My Great Grandfather was across the room around a corner in and alcove on a certain bed sort of thing, more like a cot really. And I wanted him to be loving and affectionate with me like my Grandfather was, and they resembled eachother enough that I thought he should be happy I was there. But he wasn't. Not really ever. He was scary to look at, and I was afraid to be in reach of him. I wanted to make my Grandfather happy, and to be with him, buy his Father was too much for me, and the only thing that kept me from bolting was knowing that I had no where to go. The knob was too high. I was sad for not being able to be with him, but he was not nice at all. I was surrounded by trapped helpless prisoners locked in chairs and blankets and feeling like I was the center of all the attention in the room. I seem to think my mother took me to see him that way too, but I don't think it went any better.
Then I remember seeing each of them in their respective boxes. I'm not even sure of the memories beyond looking for them there. I didn't see them. I saw objects that looked like them, but it was surprising how others could see the person they knew in the objects in front of me. Bodies have never looked like people to me. I saw them more in the faces of the people who looked for them, and around the room. I was neither scared by them, nor did the sight make me any more interested to cry.
And now I superimpose the first time I saw my daughter make eye contact with me across the room. Those angry little black eyes, searching for me as if to say, "What the hell, dad?" Blood and crud all over her head and tiny body. Doctors waving and whisking her through the room to clean her up and give her to me. How she cried at first, but seemed to listen to and respect my assurances, and how she slept on my chest almost immediately.
How Owen had still looked a little alive to me, and I held his body and turned his fingers in my hands. Arranging his face in front of me. The sickening of helplessness.
And how Morgan wasn't going to stop crying no matter how surely I told him it was okay. And how I was just happy he could cry. A fact I still remind myself of some times to get through the nights. Less and less, though. I miss it when it doesn't happen most nights.
I can see all these things with equal clarity, and at the same time. They connect for me. It makes me incredibly angry that I only have one good memory of my father/donor as well. I got home from school, and I barely got a look at his balding head and face. I went to my room to wait for my mother to finish talking to him, and once again, to be introduced properly. Part of me knew then too. I should never have left to room. He could walk by me, and I couldn't tell you. Not that I want a relationship with him on any real level. But I wanted to be able to spot the coward walking by. And I am incredibly grateful that my own children will never have to wonder about me that way.
But back to my original thread. How do these things string together? What is the purpose of this simulation? Why would anyone need to study this? Is this your idea of a game, son? I find it all hard to believe either way.
Aside from noticing the changes in LJ format, I was recently learning about a concept called Simulated Reality. Not entirely new to me in theory, but I had no idea people were putting so much work into it. Then again maybe they weren't. Maybe this is the latest update to my sim. Since then, I've seen postings for articles on the subject cropping up in my browser.
[But now I'm plagued with all these issues about my memory.]
I have exactly two real memories of my Great Grandmother. I have three of my Great Grandfather. The first one is of them together. Then one of him alone. And for each, seeing their bodies at their funerals.
I spent the first five years of my life living in grandparents home with my teenage mother and aunts and uncles always around. I distinctly recall the importance of the moment to me. I felt as if me of the future was sending me at the age of four the message that I needed to remember this. I recall feeling as though I was encouraged to stay out of sight, or out of the way. I think there was concern that I might overwhelm these aged people with my presence. They were visiting for something, and everything was even more carefully spotless than usual. They were coming in through the front door, and I was nervous and excited in the kitchen. I wanted to wait for proper manners to be let in, but I somehow knew they wouldn't let me in. And I was sure that me meeting them that day was the most important connection that would be made that day. I feel sure I'd met them before, but this would be the only lasting memory I was going to be able to keep. I was not going to let it go by. I rounded that house and went into the living room with the conviction that I NEEDED to burn every detail I could into my brain for my future self. They walked into the room, and the gold of the sunlight and the red curtains, and the overhead light was on too, so it was some very well lit sunny room. They were well lit from above and backlit enough to glow, and the squeak of the door, and the sound of a screen door, and them in the room, and me running in and out of that room, trying to stay as close to them as I could get away with. As close as my courage would let me. It broke my heart to have to wait a whole room away and watch them from the dining room. I tried to listen. I wanted to spend the time touching them some how. But I barely did. I don't even remember getting eye contact. But the way they looked, and the way the rest of the people made them so important, that I remember. Her hair like a halo or a cloud. The way they stood and sat together. His hard face. The gold and red and brightness of the room. The distinct upsetting feeling like I should cry for all the bits and pieces of this memory I was not going to keep. The unraveling darkness at the edges of my mind. That's what I kept.
The next memory I have of my Great Grandfather, is going with my Grandfather to see his dad in the nursing home. It was actually something we did a number of times, but they all blend together and I only really retain now the one experience, and the feeling like it was neither the first time, nor the last. We went up a windy flight of stairs to get to a door with the knob all the way at the top of the door. This scared me a bit, knowing I would have no way to get out. That door was solid, and that knob was scary high up. And it didn't look like normal doorknobs. I could reach it if I was lifted up. But not by myself. I would be trapped in there once I was in there. And I was only vaguely aware that it was designed to keep the infirm residents from reaching it either. They all seemed trapped and contained in their chairs or beds, or cots or whatever. My Great Grandfather was across the room around a corner in and alcove on a certain bed sort of thing, more like a cot really. And I wanted him to be loving and affectionate with me like my Grandfather was, and they resembled eachother enough that I thought he should be happy I was there. But he wasn't. Not really ever. He was scary to look at, and I was afraid to be in reach of him. I wanted to make my Grandfather happy, and to be with him, buy his Father was too much for me, and the only thing that kept me from bolting was knowing that I had no where to go. The knob was too high. I was sad for not being able to be with him, but he was not nice at all. I was surrounded by trapped helpless prisoners locked in chairs and blankets and feeling like I was the center of all the attention in the room. I seem to think my mother took me to see him that way too, but I don't think it went any better.
Then I remember seeing each of them in their respective boxes. I'm not even sure of the memories beyond looking for them there. I didn't see them. I saw objects that looked like them, but it was surprising how others could see the person they knew in the objects in front of me. Bodies have never looked like people to me. I saw them more in the faces of the people who looked for them, and around the room. I was neither scared by them, nor did the sight make me any more interested to cry.
And now I superimpose the first time I saw my daughter make eye contact with me across the room. Those angry little black eyes, searching for me as if to say, "What the hell, dad?" Blood and crud all over her head and tiny body. Doctors waving and whisking her through the room to clean her up and give her to me. How she cried at first, but seemed to listen to and respect my assurances, and how she slept on my chest almost immediately.
How Owen had still looked a little alive to me, and I held his body and turned his fingers in my hands. Arranging his face in front of me. The sickening of helplessness.
And how Morgan wasn't going to stop crying no matter how surely I told him it was okay. And how I was just happy he could cry. A fact I still remind myself of some times to get through the nights. Less and less, though. I miss it when it doesn't happen most nights.
I can see all these things with equal clarity, and at the same time. They connect for me. It makes me incredibly angry that I only have one good memory of my father/donor as well. I got home from school, and I barely got a look at his balding head and face. I went to my room to wait for my mother to finish talking to him, and once again, to be introduced properly. Part of me knew then too. I should never have left to room. He could walk by me, and I couldn't tell you. Not that I want a relationship with him on any real level. But I wanted to be able to spot the coward walking by. And I am incredibly grateful that my own children will never have to wonder about me that way.
But back to my original thread. How do these things string together? What is the purpose of this simulation? Why would anyone need to study this? Is this your idea of a game, son? I find it all hard to believe either way.