Nail Story
Matthew Ryan Fischer
What do you do with a piece of information that doesn’t fit in and
in order for it to make sense, then you have to reevaluate something where the
outcomes might totally shift your life in undesirable ways? It would be easy to
forget. Look away. Walk away. Think of other things for a few minutes, let the
memory fade and make sure short term doesn’t meld into long term thinking.
I have successfully ignored and forgotten when friends have failed
to put in their fair share on a restaurant bill. I have successfully ignored
and forgotten when my girlfriend came home late one too many times after
hanging out with co-workers after work.
It is easy to think of ignoring as some sort of moral compromise. Forgetting
as some sort of violation of truth. Memory is mush. It’s grey. It’s made up.
You combine half events with a vague idea of a song or color or smell and then
suddenly you think it’s some cornerstone event. I can know that I argued with
someone, but not know when it happened, what it was about, if we ever settled
things or if it all happened again. Did I pick and choose or let memory fade
and take its natural course? Am I tricking myself or is reality a lot more malleable
that we want to believe? Who is really hurt if you sort of know something about
someone but don’t really know the precise? I can keep a friend for thirty
years. There’s going to be a lot of shit
that happens in thirty years. I think you have to be able to forget a thing or
two. Just because it’s a blur doesn’t mean it didn’t happen, or that you have
to care. You choose your level of involvement. I sound like Project Mayhem all of
the sudden. I realize not everyone will know what that means. But in my grey
mush of a memory, it’s a thing and it’s relevant. Or pertinent. Or one of those
words that makes it seem like I know what I’m talking about.
I hurt my foot stepping on a nail. Maybe a toe nail. It was small
and long and definitely not one of mine. I’m not sure if people can grow toe
nails that long or if it was some sort of press on situation. The thing is, I
live alone. For long enough that any random press on nail should have been
swept up or vacuumed by now. So, what does that mean? Was someone in my house?
Barefoot? And why would they leave a toe nail for me to find?
I see nothing missing. I’ve noticed nothing disturbed or gone. But
how good is memory? Memory is mush. Memory is grey. It’s all just a poor
approximation of some filtered data that stuck around long enough it sort of
made an impression or two. But a mystery? A mystery lingers. A mystery digs
down and turns things over and leaves you wondering, constantly itching, trying
to find a resolution that is impossible to be found.
If I left a door unlocked, would I notice? Would I remember or
think it strange to find a window cracked open? I tell myself to watch as the
garage door comes down, just to try and make myself remember, and yet less than
half a block away, I will still wonder if it was closed when I pulled away.
I found a note, written in a woman’s handwriting, listing famous
paintings for me to look at. I don’t remember where the note came from or who’s
writing it was. I kept the note, stashed away in a box of hand written notes to
myself of things to do or read or research. Did I keep this note because I was
working on something, or was I infatuated with the woman? So much so, that I can’t remember her or why I
kept it.
I put the note back in the box, so I could find it again in
another five or ten years. Who needs a memory with such a captivating mystery?
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