(Originally Written Sunday, February 19th, 2006)

They say smell is the strongest sense tied to memory. I don't know who they are, or the testing that was done and, as most of you know, I hardly ever agree with anything that "they" tell me. If I agreed with them, I'd listen to popular music, wear nicer clothes and wouldn't have had a mullet in grade ten. They, in my humble opinion, suck. Memory though is the subject of my writing for the today, and I'm trying to stay on topic (futilely trying I should say). So the memory.

My computer has memory, or so my more computer inclined family tells me. I find this hard to believe when the damned machine tries to correct my spelling in American English instead of Canadian English even though I repeatedly turn it to Canadian. I even set Canadian as default though it told me that would “affect the normal template” (whatever that means). And yet I log on, write the word honour, and a squiggly red line appears. Actually a squiggly red line just appeared because I spelled “squiggly” with only one g the first time and with an e the second. This I blame on the strange keyboard I’m currently forced to use.

I have memory, or so the scientists say. I know it’s in there because I sometimes get decent marks on tests. Mind you if I have memory I should like to know why everyone remembers my name and I can only remember people’s names when I’ve said it about ten times. Even then it’s give or take. I know Chris’s name, though I’ve only seen him once really and though we got on well I wouldn’t say we are best friends. And yet the guy who hugged me when I was there I can’t remember his name. Weird. 

I also remember that Leigh says I’m a good speller. My Word Processor and her should get together because one of them is wrong.

I’m digressing again. I don’t digress because I’m too embarrassed (did you know that embarrassed has two R’s?) about the topic. No, I do it because it’s fun. I do it because I like to. I do it because when I write an article entitled “Memory”, they think it’s going to be about memory. I don’t like them so I digress. But I digress.

Today I came back home. That’s a lie, I came home Thursday night and beat a hell of a snowstorm on Friday. I spent Friday with my parents, which was nice. I spent Saturday with my parents and then spent the night reacquainting myself with my room, my old P133, my sticky keyboard and my lack of Internet connection. I should have spent it with my friends but I was in my room, which is phoneless and missed Ian’s call. Phoneless is not a word. Damned red line.

To the point then (sentence fragment, and not the first one either). Ok, now I’ll get to the point. Tonight I went out with my friends. Usually when people go out with their friends it is a party or drunken situation. When my friends get together we usually watch a movie, go to Becker’s and then play some video games. It was nice and full of memories. I remember hating night driving because no one shuts their brights off. I had to relearn stick. I had to relearn winter driving. I got to see Ianman again. Ianman is not a word but should be. ADDED! You can add words! Ianman, added! Phoneless, added! Brights, added! I have beaten the red line. Now if I can only beat the green one.

I left at quarter to ten to get home by my eleven o’clock curfew. It’s funny. When I was in Ottawa I came home at two or three. Something about Almonte though makes me get in that car and be home before my high school curfew. (Almonte added). When I drove home I sang Rent songs as if the old tape was in my old red jeep. I haven’t driven the jeep since summer. Hell, the tape player doesn’t even work in the car. But the whole way home I sang Rent songs.

My memory is not very good. But it’s nice to know that I remember who I was. Where you end up has a lot to do with where you start. Well, not really, but it’s nice. If you end up somewhere you don’t like you can turn around. Go home.

I wonder if my dad thinks that this place is his home or if he thinks that his Pembroke home is home. I have to ask him sometime. For now though, I need to go grok. Grok added. I’m not sure if I explained Grokking to you guys, (grokking added) so I’ll do it briefly. If this is a repeat, please ignore. Grokking, or to grok, means to understand something so much that it becomes a part of you. I know that’s hard to understand and a little silly but basically to grok you just sit quietly and try to understand something completely and from every angle. You can see me doing this often. Anytime my eyes get that glaze as I stare at a tree or at, say, your breasts; I’m really grokking. * That sounds like a joke but it actually happened once. I used to be bad at it. First example. I was in the high school play and when someone told me an interesting thing about my role I began to grok. And I grokked. And I grokked. That’s when I realised I was staring at the leading lady’s low-cut dress. I have no doubt in my mind that she still thinks I’m creepy.

Second example. I was on the bus, which is an excellent place to grok (there’s not much else to do on a bus) when I realised I was staring at a bully. Or rather he realised it and said, “What are you looking at?” I replied with an “oh nothing” followed by a “staring off into space”. He points up and says, “space is that way.” “No,” I answered, “Space is between your ears.” My guts have not felt the same since. The ironic thing about this article is that I can’t for the life of me remember how it ends. You see, after writing the article I went to post it. I didn’t have my LJ password so I had to get a new one mailed to me. Then, just when I was about to enter the new one, the computer crashed. I recovered everything up until the astric. Everything else I’ve tried to jot down from memory.

I remember being very satisfied with the ending. I remember saying “so no matter what you remember memories are great”. Then I said something witty followed by a colon and then a question that tied it all together. It was strong. It was deep. It connected the whole piece together and I thought it was the best thing I’d ever written. It’s very ironic that I don’t remember it. Damn. You’re going to have to take my word for it. It was just so damn good. Damn.

Though you got to admit, it is nice to go out with humour. Even if this time the joke’s on me.

Love,

Doctor