Just for the heck of it, please take a look at this one too.
Thanks in advanceDog and Cat. Coffee and Tea. Great Gatsby and Catcher in the Rye. Everyone knows there are two types of people in the world. What are they?
My mother loved taking photographs. Whenever we went out together, she would press the camera to her ear as if it was a radio. To me, the light of the flash was plainly annoying. Adoring nature by taking pictures was like running on the beach with your boots. By using the camera as our second eye, we lost the direct connection between nature and us. The more important thing to do was to enjoy the scenery with our own eyes and let the moments sink into our memory.
We were on top of Grouse Mountain when a helicopter was about to take off. My mother, being an enthusiastic photographer, asked me to take a picture of her with the helicopter in the background. (That's professional!) I hesitated for fear of missing the spectacular moments of the helicopter's take off. Still, I agreed reluctantly. As expected, the moment I lifted the camera to my eye level, it began to lift off. As I watched the helicopter drifting away, turning into a small dot, I told myself I would never take pictures for her again.
It was not until a rainy Saturday afternoon when I was still lying in my warm bed the helicopter flew back into my mind. I tried to keep myself awake by thinking about the helicopter, but my thoughts were stagnant, struggling to remember anything more than that single image that I had taken. It was frustrating knowing that the spectacular experience that could originally become part of my memory being reduced to only a static, lifeless image. As I was struggling to remember something about that helicopter, my mother came into my room awkwardly with a random stack of pictures. I took a closer look at them, and realized that these pictures were taken at times when my grandfather was still catching butterflies. But soon, I found myself immersed in these forgotten memories.
I saw an unwitting child wearing a pair of roller blades bigger than his body, sitting on the asphalt ground, opening his mouth so wide that I could not even tell if he was crying from the wound in his knees of the joy of playing. But did it really matter? During the course of my life, how much did I really did remember? And among all those memories that I lived through the filter of time, how many were really meaningful? As I was pondering these questions, I realized that memory was like photographs, just that I could not choose which to remember and which to forget. Instead of being boring, static artefacts, photographs are hints to the forgotten memories that ignited the sparks of imagination within us. Because I tried so hard to remember everything, all the information simply boiled down to a sea of homo genius primordial soup. The pictures functioned as the pieces of connections that lead me back to those moments, and allowed my imagination to take over the rest and explore the forgotten past, or the possibilities that had never happened. When that happened, the distinction between past and future was blurred.
Now, I could finally understand my mother's mentality. As we reminiscence from the present to the past, from digital to physical, all the memories flooded back to me. In my mind, I heard the irritating flapping of the Canadian flag drowned by the deafening roar of the rotor blades as the helicopter clumsily lifted off the ground, fading beyond the horizon into infinity, and beyond!