Memories

A couple of weeks ago I bought a multipurpose scanner/printer/copier (a Canon PIXMA MP610). In order to accomodate it in my room, where little space remains unoccupied from books, stacks of notes,CDs and DVDs, I had a major relocation of books and stuff.

I packed my trusted but woefully outdated (it had a parallel port connection! ) Hewlett-Packard Deskjet 710C, with its bulky external power supply in typical HP fashion, in its original package box and stashed it in the basement next to my old Eizo F55 Flexscan 17' CRT monitor that weighed in at more or less 25 kgs and an assortment of other useless stuff that I simply stored not because I would ever need them again but because of their function as memory milestones.


3 days ago, overload stress got the better of the side shelves that after the relocation hosted all of my medicine textbooks and they collapsed. After the chaos that ensued had been cleared and the broken shelves removed, I discovered yesterday, in a nook behind them, a poster that brought back a flood of memories. It is a big poster of Jimmy Cauty's artwork, inspired by J.R.R. Tolkien's Lord of the Rings (fortunately popular enough to find pictures of it on the Web) :

Das Memoirensignal: J.Cauty's Poster

I believe it was 1994 or 95 when I got that poster. Each and every time that something made me lose heart, every time that I thought that I was approaching a state of total despair I would look up at the wizened figure of Gandalf and I would take heart, I would muster my forces and stand my ground waiting for the riders to charge from the east.

Yesterday, when I found that poster that had been down and tucked away for almost 5 years, the temptation to wallow in memories of times of innocence, simpler concerns and past personal and academic triumphs came back stronger than ever. This time however I was warned.

Memory is a comforting thing. It is easy to slip into the warm smugness of idealised moments, perfect sunsets, hours of blissful idleness or shared tenderness. How easy to dwell within those slowly fading halls like the Mountain King, hoarding treasures of the past and accumulating the patina of nobility while those unfettered by such concerns go about their business, shaping their future without the shackles that come with the "cherished" past.

You see, I recently saw a greek play, The Milk (Το Γάλα) by Vassilis Katsikonouris (Βασίλης Κατσικονούρης), directed by Anna Vagena (Αννα Βαγενά) with her in the leading role.

In the play a family (the widow with her two sons) with greek origins, repatriated from the former USSR, faces poverty and hardship and a particular tribulation: the younger son suffers from hallucinatory psychosis with manic/depressive lapses. The family is supported by a small church charity and the income of the elder son who has always been the stronger one and who in the face of adversity has steeled his soul against any emotional needs of those around him, in order to persevere and achieve his lifetime goal of becoming an accepted member of "griecki" society and leave forever behind the feral, hunted posture of his fellow immigrants.

The main theme of the play is the plight of the younger, psychotic brother (Lefteris) who cannot find any kind of support. His mother, wracked by guilt over her inability to provide for him ever since he was born (she was not even able to breast-feed him, hence the recurrent theme of milk throughout the play) is locked with him in a relationship of mutual dependence and is incapable of providing a steady hand to help ease his aflliction. His elder brother (Antonis), his last resort and hope, is steadily growing more and more unavailable for those little memory trips in the days of their seemingly carefree childhood in the suburbs of Tbilisi, Georgia, that seem to give Lefteris so much joy.

In the end, with his condition worsening and the mother dead, Lefteris has to be consigned to a psychiatric facility. His nightmares coming true, as the ambulance comes to take him away, he pleads for a final re-enactment of some sweet memory from the Georgia days, a football event of the final Soviet days. His elder brother snaps and tells him that those days, that happiness is never coming back, in the same fashion of the Raven's "Nevermore" as the playwright himself comments. "Δεν μπορεί να ξαναγίνει. Τίποτα δεν ξαναγίνεται ρε Λευτέρη..."

Lefteris continues to plead. He says that with love, sometimes, things may become as they were. Otherwise one is everywhere and always a stranger. "Καμιά φορα...Ίσως και να ξαναγίνονται. Όλα. Άμα αγαπιέσαι. Αλλιώς παντού και πάντα ξένος είσαι."

In the end, as he senses his fate, Lefteris begs Antonis to tell him that he loves him. Even now, Antonis refuses to do so. If I said that, he answers, then I would not be able to let them take you....

Reality is ruthless. And it remains so no matter how sheltered one is. With his mother gone, Lefteris had nowhere but his memories, his dreams and his love for his brother to turn to.

Castles built on sand, words written on sand, to be swept away by a mere brush of the surf...

The growing shadow of Lefteris' affliction overwhelmed his vulnerable mother, but the iron core within Antonis psyche held fast. He may not have been the one to evoke the most compassion (although his suppressing of feelings tormented him in its own way) but in the end he was the one to survive. From the very first of his days, he endured, and in endurance, he grew stronger and stronger.

This is what I found most revealing in the play. The portrayal of that iron core. Its forging in hardships unspeakable: Indulging in memories leaves vulnerabilities. Golden days of the past will never return when needed. Irrelevant emotions cause only griefs untold. (No matter how cynical that sounds). We must strive to forge ahead. Life is dynamic and not static.

A cushy, protected life will obscure this fact even from the eyes of talented, intelligent people (the Leopard, Principe di Salina comes in my mind...).

Like the ubiquitous warning in investment products: Past profits do not constitute a guarantee for future ones.

A seemingly insignificant failure of material has forced an early spring-cleaning. What I will try to get rid of first is demanding memories. It is through these that illusions are maintained and vulnerabilities take hold. They will never be expunged. We all carry our bleeding invisible wounds. There is no need to gush them in self-serving indulgence.

This afternoon I consigned all of my old hardware to the garbage.I crumpled or tore any other physical mementos that got in the way. I made a neat roll of the poster and tucked it in the furthest reaches of the basement.

Hopefully when I find it again, I will look upon it not with the illusion of hope but with the strength of independence.

Well we both know what memories can bring,
they bring diamonds and rust.....