tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2495180542391684176.post5529080899033419470..comments2023-06-29T11:41:18.545-07:00Comments on Obsidian Blooms: Memory BytesKirby Obsidianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02914450223538699453noreply@blogger.comBlogger2125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2495180542391684176.post-68897542494945882672013-10-14T23:30:32.434-07:002013-10-14T23:30:32.434-07:00Sorry for not acknowledging your comment earlier, ...Sorry for not acknowledging your comment earlier, Lucie. I enjoyed it, and actually thought I had responded because I thought about it quite a bit. There's another of those odd cognitive slips.<br />My brother and I are like you and your sister, often having wildly different memories of things we did together. And we can both be pretty adamant. Lately, we share the added experience of disputing recollections with our father. We grew up thinking he had a flawless memory - he's always been able to rattle off the dates of events, and to recount details lost to the rest of us. Once evidence cropped up that even he could be mistaken, it was almost as though one of the pillars of family identity was fractured.<br />I'm pretty sure that some of my oldest memories are not my own, but exist because I was told something over and over. How much of our past is merely imagined?<br />Kirby Obsidianhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/02914450223538699453noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2495180542391684176.post-67464902882570891542013-10-02T11:42:09.188-07:002013-10-02T11:42:09.188-07:00Wow!
Memory is very tricky and pretty completely ...Wow!<br /><br />Memory is very tricky and pretty completely unreliable, if all you're after is facts. I remember in my 20s thinking that my sister was a, shall we say, embellisher of the truth, because she would remember events that I also clearly remembered, and she would recount whole scenarios that I swear never happened.<br /><br />When I read my old journals (started at 14, pretty much abandoned by 30 or so, with infrequent jottings since), I am sometimes shocked at how little I actually remember about most things. But then there are certain moments in my mind's eye that I can't forget. Where I was, and who said what, throughout the afternoon JFK got shot. The feeling of being a small child and lying on the grass in front of my grandmother's house in New Hampshire.lspielerhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/14889684791464256863noreply@blogger.com