In my right hand I hold my jet-black SLR camera, its safety strap wrapped securely around my wrist, my finger poised on the button. My left holds a pen, an instrument of my imagination, ready to fight and wrestle down words to do my bidding. But I am at a loss. Can someone tell me how? How to capture the ephemeral dream that is memory? It eludes me and confounds me. Its very nature seeks to resist confinement and definition as I try to assign it meaning.
Could it be the fear that grips me when I am rushing at full sprint towards a hurdle? My metal spikes digging deep into the rubber of the track, my body juxtaposed between other competitors as my torso contorts itself over the barrier, each of us reveling in our shared moment of exhilaration. Or the turmoil in my mind when I cry for a first love, as my tears seeps through my cotton pillow. Mayhap this "emotion" is the way to capture memories. The joy of success, the fear in defeat, and the love felt... But that is childish of me, how can I possibly bottle emotion?
Maybe memory is in sound. Each note combined together creating a euphony known as music. Am I creating memory when my fingers dance across the piano, striking black and white keys in succession, trying to create structure from the random notes? And the arpeggios and scales twisting together, forming a distinctly unique piece that could only come from a person's soul. I can almost see the sound making different hues of color, building lines that form shapes and creates memory. Almost. But that cannot be memory; it doesn't give me an image to hold on to. I can't define memory with just sound.
I take a breath, interrupting the barrage of questions that I haven't found the answers to. My eyes glance towards that jet-black camera. Maybe.
"Chkk" A crystal clear slice of time, almost as if a knife spliced it out of a stream of consciousness. 15 couples poised in mid lift, myself in the middle, her legs wrapped around my waist as she bends backwards to smile. Neck flexed as my face struggles to compose a grin to the judges. Yes, this is memory. I can feel the emotion. I can almost hear the screams of the crowd. And I can see it."Chkk" A rare smile from a small, waiflike Beijing student as she grips the school supplies I handed her tightly, a small tear sliding down her cheek. "Chkk" Myself standing next to my best friend, my inspiration. Arms flung haphazardly over each other's shoulder. This is friendship. "Chkk" 17 pairs of running shoes riddled with holes stacked at the back of my closet. "Chkk" Debate notes. "Chkk" "Chkk"
But it's not enough. There's still not enough there to form memory. A slight moment of revelation as my left hand grips my pen. And I begin to jot down details. Homecoming performance, weeks of practice, switching partners twice. Community service on the outskirts of Beijing, cultural exchange in the weeks leading up to the Olympics. 30 minutes before we were engaged in a fierce trial over smelt fish and endangered species. Spikes, flats, trainers representing 4 years, 8 seasons of running and jumping.
This is why I am a yearbooker.
The last two paragraphs are really rough and I'm trying to integrate the last three a bit better, but overall it captured the idea I was trying to put forth.
Could it be the fear that grips me when I am rushing at full sprint towards a hurdle? My metal spikes digging deep into the rubber of the track, my body juxtaposed between other competitors as my torso contorts itself over the barrier, each of us reveling in our shared moment of exhilaration. Or the turmoil in my mind when I cry for a first love, as my tears seeps through my cotton pillow. Mayhap this "emotion" is the way to capture memories. The joy of success, the fear in defeat, and the love felt... But that is childish of me, how can I possibly bottle emotion?
Maybe memory is in sound. Each note combined together creating a euphony known as music. Am I creating memory when my fingers dance across the piano, striking black and white keys in succession, trying to create structure from the random notes? And the arpeggios and scales twisting together, forming a distinctly unique piece that could only come from a person's soul. I can almost see the sound making different hues of color, building lines that form shapes and creates memory. Almost. But that cannot be memory; it doesn't give me an image to hold on to. I can't define memory with just sound.
I take a breath, interrupting the barrage of questions that I haven't found the answers to. My eyes glance towards that jet-black camera. Maybe.
"Chkk" A crystal clear slice of time, almost as if a knife spliced it out of a stream of consciousness. 15 couples poised in mid lift, myself in the middle, her legs wrapped around my waist as she bends backwards to smile. Neck flexed as my face struggles to compose a grin to the judges. Yes, this is memory. I can feel the emotion. I can almost hear the screams of the crowd. And I can see it."Chkk" A rare smile from a small, waiflike Beijing student as she grips the school supplies I handed her tightly, a small tear sliding down her cheek. "Chkk" Myself standing next to my best friend, my inspiration. Arms flung haphazardly over each other's shoulder. This is friendship. "Chkk" 17 pairs of running shoes riddled with holes stacked at the back of my closet. "Chkk" Debate notes. "Chkk" "Chkk"
But it's not enough. There's still not enough there to form memory. A slight moment of revelation as my left hand grips my pen. And I begin to jot down details. Homecoming performance, weeks of practice, switching partners twice. Community service on the outskirts of Beijing, cultural exchange in the weeks leading up to the Olympics. 30 minutes before we were engaged in a fierce trial over smelt fish and endangered species. Spikes, flats, trainers representing 4 years, 8 seasons of running and jumping.
This is why I am a yearbooker.
The last two paragraphs are really rough and I'm trying to integrate the last three a bit better, but overall it captured the idea I was trying to put forth.