Memory and The Suspension of Disbelief

Memory and The Suspension of Disbelief:

I am what I am. And this is mainly due to what I remember.

Remembrance, memory, is the main ingredient that gives my life continuity and perspective. Memory provides the glue to bind together all the myriads of fragments of the millions of moments in my life that otherwise I would not be able to comprehend as a continuum. 

Out of this mosaic I construct a coherent picture of myself and my life. Naturally the picture that is thus painted is singular and individual and may not even be true, but it serves as the picture, my picture, of myself, of what I am and of how I see myself in the context of my surroundings.

Memory functions as my own individual little time machine that enables me to become aware of my personal history, my joys and sorrows, my successes and failures that all combine to form that what is Me.

This story of Me can only be fully enjoyed, though, if I adopt the attitude of a theatergoer, a reader of tales or watcher of films, the attitude all storytellers rely on: For the duration of the show, suspend all disbelief.

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Variation

Variation

Staying at home, 

reflecting on the diversity of life, 

on bacterial infection of the knees, 

on ghostly ghosting images of metamorphosing half-beings, 

marveling in repetition and variation, 

delighting in encounters of transitional images of reflections of self and others, 

erupting in creational scribbling bursts of endlessly repetitive circumscriptions of flowers. 

There is never the thing but the version of the thing. 

There is always only a fragment of a fragment of a fragment. 

There is variation. 

There is life.

 Robert Faeth

Variation:

Thing 1 and Thing 2 are similar but not the same. 

Thing 1 has at least one property that is different from Thing 2.

A variation is a different form of something, a variant, a transformation of the melody or theme and in series of variations diversity, development and evolution, thus maintenance of life, is made possible.

It seems that whether or not variation would exist in reality is fundamental. 

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My flowers are reflected In your mind - poem

 

My flowers are reflected

In your mind

As you are reflected in your glass.

When you look at them,

There is nothing in your mind

Except the reflections

Of my flowers.

But when I look at them

I see only the reflections

In your mind,

And not my flowers. 

...

from ‘The Florist Wears Knee-Breeches’, Wallace Stevens’ (1879-1955):

                                                                              https://robertfaeth.de/_Congrat-2018-19

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