Category: memories

‘Speak, Memory’ and Me

‘Speak, Memory’  is a recounting of one person’s creation of a bot based on a friend to cope with their grief. The bot is based on her friend’s emails. It is a fascinating read into how one person turns to clever use of technology and information to bridge her loss.

The tale has meaning to me for my writing. Memory is an enormous aspect of the future in ‘Returnee’ and ‘Long Summer’. While death is conquered through complex machinations involving resurrection, regeneration or cloning (multiple paths exist), and diseases and illnesses are staved off by embedded nano-meds (which use compilers and teleporters to seamlessly import medicines and treat you without pause), memory is a larger problem. First, your pre-death memories must be stored and accurately restored to you when you’re returned to the living. People living longer need to remember more, especially as space exploration and colonization exponentially expands and technology keeps racing ahead. Memory thus becomes augmented with biological drives as well as networks. You’re constantly connected.

As part of this extrapolation of what might be, memories of specific people, such as grandparents, are further developed through big data/social media mining. This creates a far deeper and broader database of their personality. Further, the database is housed in an avatar and AI dedicated to being that person. So, for example, your grandfather can be summoned into your presence as an avatar and converse and interact as your companion, even though he passed away several hundred years ago, or still lives, but is on the galaxy’s far side.

Last, as people struggle to remember specifics, many have created a separate avatar that houses the augmented, expanded personal memory. For Brett, his memory is an attractive tan blonde. He does not name her but calls her ‘memory’. Madison Handley, however, once based her memory on Mal Reynolds from ‘Serenity’ and ‘Firefly’. After out-growing it, she changes her memory’s appearance and disposition several times. By the time of ‘Long Summer’, when she’s become a pirate, her memory has taken on the aspect of Grutte Pier, the Frisian pirate formally known as Piers Gerlofs Donia.

As a further component of memory and extended living, I had to determine what route memory will take. Are future people’s memory perfect? What does it mean to perfectly recall a moment? Recent studies show that our memory is very imperfect, and those imperfections help us cope with existence and survive. Oh, the lies we tell ourselves. As part of that, which version of memory is collected? The perfect, unbiased version, or our personal edition? In the end, both are collected but only law enforcement normally accesses the perfect memory to resolve conflicts and solve crimes.

The rest of us prefer our personal recollections.

2

Old Gangs

Found some of the old gang this week.

Well, one of one ‘old gangs’, this one from my early teen years. I’ve had many old gangs as I traveled the world in a twenty-one year military career, and a few other old gangs as I pursued civilian careers after my military retirement.

This old gang is one of my earliest, formed in formed in Penn Hills, outside of Pittsburgh, PA. We attended school together there at Washington Elementary School, Penn Junior, and John H. Linton, riding the bus, sitting in classrooms, playing baseball and football on fields and streets. I knew them from fifth grade through ninth, and then I left the area. Although I returned, they and I changed, and we never enjoyed the same dynamics and relationships.

I always held them as young people alongside my young self in my mind’s crawl spaces, like home decor that was once loved and used, now set aside, but saved, because someday, I’ll pull that out again. I have tools like that, too. I used to change my cars’ oil, spark plugs, etc, what we used to call ‘giving the car a tune-up.’ These chores had specialized tools. The Porsche used one tool for its oil filter, the Audi, Camaro, Firebird and BMW used other ones. Every time I bought a new previously owned car, I bought a new shop manual and the correct tools. And I never released them back to the wild.

Likewise, I have wires for everything computer and stereo. Printer parallel and serial cables, RCA plugs and jacks in full size and mini, adapters, splits, cable wires, and now, zip drives, mice, keyboards, and fire wires. I guess I’m a collector.

I’ve been looking for my old friends through my family connections, Facebook, Google and other search engines and social media. I wanted to know what each did with their existence, talents and skills, see what they’ve become, what they’ve experienced and accomplished. One finally turned up this week, through his father’s obituary. Astonishingly, that took me directly to my friend’s FB page.

I studied what was shared for a while, confirming it was him. He’d now fifty-nine, but I saw my childhood friend in the hold of his head and the gaze in his eyes. He’d once been a huge comedy fan, outgoing with his inner circle of friends but otherwise shy and withdrawn.

Then he got a puppy, Charlie. Charlie was a small, shaggy black and brown mutt. He loved that dog, and the dog loved him, each exhibiting shining proof in their eyes. Unfortunately, heart worms brought the relationship to an early end, devastating my friend more than Katrina did to New Orleans. He was forced too early to deal with pain and loss, and it fundamentally changed him, something I think about as I watch children cope with historic natural disasters and war zones. Not all react the same to adversity but my friend’s reaction opened a chasm that was never bridged. We came to forks in the road, took different ways, and never saw or heard of one another again.

Until now. It’s nice reaching out to him, and lovely that he’s accepted my FB friend request, but I’ve escaped illusions that we’ll ever be the buddies of childhood. I’ve seen too many changes in myself and other gangs of friends. But my memory of him and our fun and growth in classrooms and summer streets and parks are part of my touchstone of being, so I reach out, to catch a firefly of youth, and watch it glow once more, however briefly it might be.

1

Counter Points

It’s a quiet Labor Day Monday. Labor Day has always been on Monday in my lifetime. My adopted state, Oregon, was the first state to establish Labor Day by law. I’m not always so proud of Oregon and its history, especially up in Portland, which was yugely racist.

The Atlantic points to Utah as a powerful swing state for this US presidential election, emblematic of the larger problems voters face, that their candidates aren’t popular and most are voting the lessor of evils in their minds. I felt the Bern, myself.

Even though it’s been argued that fracking has nothing to little to do with Oklahoma’s quakes, because the fault lines weren’t mapped before the quakes started, Oklahoma shut down thirty-seven fracking wells after the 5.6 quake. Hmm, wonder why?

Atlanta recorded its second hottest summer on record. San Francisco regarded its coldest August in seventy-four years.

Poor Brock Turner, right? People are pretty pissed at the convicted rapist who spent only three months in jail. Poor guy, who would think that his fifteen minutes of fame would ruin his life after an act of violence his father blamed on a culture of alcohol and partying. Consider me one of those pissed at him.

Only one Howard Johnson restaurant remain open in the United States. They were once as ubiquitous as GC Murphy, Woolworths, Sears and Montgomery Ward. I think I ate at one once. I know I ate more often at GC Murphy, where $1.00 bought three subs. I also ate at Woolworths, as my local town had one with a daily blue plate special.

Of course, computer games were once the province of children.

What were once treats are now normal. We rarely ate pizzas when I was growing up. Pizza places were small, family owned businesses with a few tables, never anything fancy. Now, wow.

And I never had a taco or burrito while growing up. Mom made spaghetti with meatballs for dinner regularly and lasagna once in a while, but it wasn’t normal to go out to dinner for pasta.

The food thoughts are triggered by dark chocolate salted caramels a house guest presented us. Wow, are they delicious. I’ve heard of salted caramel for a few years now but when did they become a thing? Speaking of chocolate, I didn’t discover dark chocolate until I was older. I’d always preferred Mounds bars but never quite realized it was dark chocolate that so attracted me. Now, fortunately, dark chocolate is as available as, say, lattes, mochas and beer. Once upon a time, growing up in Pittsburgh, PA, I thought Stroh’s, Miller, Hamm’s, Pabst Blue Ribbon, Rolling Rock and Old Milwaukee were the only beers available, and that Rolling Rock was the best! I haven’t had any of those beers in yonks, at least since visiting family in America in 1988. Fortunately, I returned to the US from overseas when the micro-brew craze was striking in 1991.

Barbra Streisand has her 11th #1 Billboard 200 album.

Some things change more slowly than others.

2

‘Phooon Party

Okay, first for the schmaltz alert. This post will get schmaltzy.

Like many, Gene Wilder’s demise dredged up memories. I associate specific music, movies, actors and events with epochal life moments. Gene Wilder is a large swatch of the moments because his rising fame coincided with VCRs rising and my long term assignment to Kadena Air Base, Okinawa, Japan.

Arriving in May of 1981, base housing wasn’t immediately available. We put ourselves on the wait list and then found an off-base residence in Kadena City. The apartment building was a fort-like three story cement structure with minimal windows and external doors. The owner/managers lived in a bottom residence, and American service personnel and their dependents occupied the ten apartments spread throughout the rest. Keeping with the local way, none of these domiciles were large, but they were well built. A water cistern was on the roof. With it and the stout walls, the building was great for enduring earthquakes, typhoons and droughts.

Typhoon watching was almost a sport. Armed Forces Radio and Television Services provided us with our news and entertainment, and we tracked the storms across the Pacific and through the various seas. Which base was it going to hit? Hickam in Hawaii, Anderson on Guam, Clark in the PI? Or was it heading our way in Japan, or north to Korea?

Whichever place it struck was a cause for intense business on the base. If it was heading for us, we scrambled to launch the aircraft out of the typhoon’s path while securing the base. If you were on duty when the typhoon struck, you were on for the duration. Otherwise, you stocked up on food, water and things to do, and settled in at home.

This all took planning. Lines grew everywhere, but especially at the Commissary where we bought our food, and the USO where we rented our movies.

That’s where Gene Wilder enters. As AFRTS didn’t offer exciting programming options and often went off the air during a ‘phoon, we bought a VHS player. A huge, toploading Magnavox unit, it cost a grand, weighed over fifty pounds and took up the top of our twenty-five inch console television. But with it, we could rent movies from the USO. Thus we could sign out ‘Blazing Saddles’, ‘The Producers’, ‘Young Frankenstein’, ‘Silverstreak’, and ‘Stir Crazy’, along with movies like ‘Blues Brothers’. ‘Absence of Malice’. ‘Body Heat’. ‘Pennies from Heaven’. ‘Eye of the Needle’. The offerings were not broad, and it was serving the entire base population stalking entertainment, so you grabbed what you could, and then traded with others in the building, watching movie after movie and trying to catch some sleep as rain deluged the island and the wind hurled items through the charcoal skies.

Back on base, working in the Command Post, it wasn’t so good. We were pretty limited to what was available to watch. Scrambling aircraft and dealing with the emergencies, nobody raced out to rent movies. Then once that was done, the phones and radios went still as our status changed to monitoring the passing storm and waiting for it to clear. We watched what was on hand. How many times did I see ‘Silverstreak’, ‘Young Frankenstein’, ‘Blazing Saddles’ and ‘Stir Crazy’? Enough that we would start going stir crazy. Enough that I remember the characters and who played them, and whole scenes of dialogue.

Yet, now, watching scenes from these movies as I remember Gene Wilder and Richard Pryor, and the others, I laugh and laugh, again. Remembering these things last night with my beer buddies, we just had to mention a character or a line from his movies to trigger laughter.

Thanks, Gene Wilder. It was a memorable stint with you through the many, many typhoons.

 

5

Reminding Me of You

A white Jeep flipped a bitch, your expression, and it came to me because that of that time you were pulling out and that Jeep did a U turn and hit you, and then tried blaming you. That’s how it was going for you, then. Your poor grey Bimmer was totaled when it flipped on 101 on the home commute after hitting a piece of wood in the lane, but the insurance company didn’t believe you. But they couldn’t explain why your car flipped, either.

‘Round and Round’ came on, and I thought of you, your face lighting up as you lunged for the boom box and cranked it up as you said, “Oh, my God, that’s my tune.” Then you played air guitar and sang.

I think of you whenever I see an Atlanta Braves uniform or hat. You’re gone and the players you cheered have retired but you bled the colors. And you’re there when the Packers play, even though Favre moved on to the other teams and the HoF.

Every time I stop to look at a new program, I think of you, because you were the first one to ever point out to me all the little things, encouraging me to not be afraid and just click on things to see what happens. You come to me in a whiff of Pall Malls and Marlboros, in a sweaty white Miller can, and in the taste of bad, burnt black coffee in small paper cups. I see you when I cut open a watermelon and gaze at the rows of black seeds in the glistening sweet flesh and when I hear a fighter jet split the overhead air. You emerge when someone speeds by, talking on their cell phone, because I can hear you spit, “Slow down, fucker, and get off your phone and drive.”

Van Halen’s ‘Jamie’s Crying’ comes on, and you pop out, because you were dating that young woman, Jamie, and ended up marrying her. We were all at the club one night and started singing it to her, and she started crying, asking us, “Why are you doing that?” She was drunk, we all were, and you and she went into the dark corner and talked and kissed. You’re in the taste of a well grilled cheeseburger because nobody made them like you, no one ever in my life, and you’re there when I think about making pancakes or get out of the car and stretch and look around at a highway rest stop. You’re there in the blue sky over the ocean and in the whispering, salty sea breeze, brushing your hair from your face and urging me to move over so you can take a picture.

You all come to me, individuals caught in the wad of bubblegum that is me, individuals contributing to my sum total, from your moments and points, trying to stretch away but always mired in the pink strain of memories.

1

Sentimentality and Nostalgia Win in a Landslide

Purging tee shirts today, and shorts. I have many of both, old and frayed and worn, that never escape the drawer. They often no longer fit, because I am no longer that size.

But there is a Pink Floyd tee shirt from the Momentary Lapse of Reason tour. What a party that was. What was it, 1988? While stationed in Germany. We partied with Germans and Czechs. Man, hard to believe it was so long ago. I was a different person then. Well, I’ll keep it, even though its collar has partially separated from the shirt’s body, the colors have lost their luster, and the underarms are holed. I’ll keep it.

Also, the tee shirt celebrating Mark Donohue and the 30th anniversary of the Porsche 917-30, which itself was over a decade ago. That’s in good shape but small, a keeper. Also a keeper is the Australian Grand Prix shirt from 2000. My boss, a good friend, bought it for me. I was supposed to accompany her to Australia. We were doing clinic trials for a new medical device for treating chronic total occlusions, but plans were changed at the last minute and I didn’t go. But she remembered how I’d been going on about racing in general, and the Formula 1 race was going on that weekend, turning the place into a carnival, so she bought the tee shirt for me. It’s never been worn. I haven’t seen Laura in ten years but I remember her brightly as one of the best people I ever worked for and a sensational friend.

Michael Schumacher in a Ferrari in the rain is kept. That was his first year with Ferrari after he won two WDC with Bennetton. A red tee shirt from an Iowa writing conference is kept, and another, from a writing conference in Portland, is kept. My LeMans tee shirt is kept. This tee, although drained of life, celebrates Mario Andretti’s final year of Indy car racing. To the keep pile. The Steeler AFC championship shirt from my brother-in-law must be kept.

The tee shirt from the race course formerly called Laguna Seca is also kept. It has the old configuration on it. We ‘won’ passes from the Marlboro people when they were doing a promotion on Moffett NAS. I phrase it as ‘won’ because they gave us the passes after enjoying our company. That was when? Well, Marlboro sponsored Penske, and Al Unser Jr, Emerson Fittipaldi, and Paul Tracy were the driving line-up. 1994, a year before I retired from the USAF, that was the weekend the late, unique Randy stole a golf cart from a track official and drove it around because he was tired of walking. Blue, the tee doesn’t fit, but it’s the thought that counts.

In the end, the thought counts for a lot. The Goodwill pile is much smaller than the pile to return to the drawers. But these shirts, with their smells and rips, shrunken and frayed, are better than photos. I’ll die someday. An estate sale will be held or my wife or relatives will come through and look at these shirts. Those who know me will know what they’re about, and why I kept them.

The rest will just have to wonder.

5

Hey Jude

What was the list? We’d written items on the blackboard. I paused by the rice to visualize the chalk scribblings and compare it to the shopping cart. Sweet pot, broc, car, ban, OM, cil. All secured. Ch. Butt. Brd. Blk b. Lem.

I’ll head for the cheese, get that done – no, the bread is closer. I’ll go through the bread to cross the store to reach the cheese. Then I’ll swing back by the rear aisle for the butter, detour to the canned goods for the black beans and lemonades, and then, off list, perhaps a bit o’ choc.

The store is easily Ashland’s most popular. Shop ‘n Kart has a vibe of peace and food. Lots of organics. Nice selections of fresh produce, cheeses, beers and wines, and green stuff made to help us reduce waste and our foot print. Good location, too, here on the town’s south side, off Ashland where it meets Tolman. Busy, busy place.

Background music plays. It’s usually rock. Sometimes it’s classical. ‘Hey Jude’ came on as I surveyed the bread and found the whole wheat offering desired. I sang along, remembering when I heard and sang along as a child. Shifting gears, I veered past other shoppers, passing as I remembered, pol – for polenta, backtracking to the pasta zone. Others softly sang with the Beatles as I went.

Exiting that aisle, I entered the perpendicular central aisle toward the  dairy cases. ‘Hey Jude’ swelled. So did the store singing. More and more people sang the song, and sang it louder and louder. I don’t know if they knew they sang aloud, or if they were conscious of others singing aloud, but hearing more singing as the French horns flared and Sir McCartney sang, I half-expected the shoppers to begin synchronized dancing.

“Na, na, nah, na-na-na-na.” Visions of ‘Basketball Jones’ surfaced from my teenage years. I heard someone say, “Now the cashiers,” and the cashiers took up ‘Hey Jude’, then they called for “just the people in the ice cream section,” and they joyfully spun in their Nikes and sandals, kicking their legs up in their jeans, skirts, cargo shorts and capris, raising their eyes and smiling toward an unseen ceiling camera, holding out their purchases as they sang, “Hey Jude, judy, judy, judy, wow.”

The song ended. The singing silenced. Dancing stopped. Shopping resumed. Most of it had been in my head, of course, unlike the shopping list, which was now gone. Where was I going?

‘Nights in White Satin’ began. I heard someone softy singing along, but realized it was only me.

References:

Hey Jude

Basketball Jones

Nights in White Satin

 

0

Einstein’s Blackberries

Sheldon Cooper is struggling to penetrate some impenetrable physics issue. Leonard Hofstader reminds Sheldon that tedium will free his mind, which is why Einstein worked in the patent office. Sheldon takes a job at the Cheesecake Factory where Penny works.

This is all from The Big Bang Theory, a sitcom I enjoy. On to Einstein’s Blackberries.

1. We went blackberry picking this morning. Seventy degrees and sunny at ten AM, the perfect weather has been dialed up.

The picking is being done at a friend’s place, ten acres on a small town’s fringe. Silence is the rule. Aircraft and a few cars traveling Highway 99 are the only violators.

I worry about zombies.

This is a perfect zombie scenario. A serene scene of a couple engrossed with fruit picking activity. Then a zombie arrives.

Which zombie type is critical. If they’re the 28 Days/Weeks Later rage filled fast moving zombies, we could be in trouble, but if these zombies belong on The Walking Dead, we’ll probably get away. Unless there are a zillion, or we’re stupid about it, like stopping to get more berries as the zombies close. (“Oh, look at that big, beautiful, blackberry, I must have it, oh, no, a zombie got me.” Screaming and flesh tearing ensues (according to the captions).)

If our zombie pursuers harken from iZombie, it’s difficult to judge whether we’ll escape. They like to philosophize about their killing, life choices, and plans.

Something cracks on the brambles’ far side. Snorting and chuffing follow. It could be a zombie, or group of zombies, trying to be quiet as they stalk us. It could also be a horse pasturing in the next field. Whinnying follows. That could be a zombie pretending to be a horse. Or a horse. One never knows. It’s Schrödinger’s cat all over again.

2. Berry and fruit picking, yard work, washing and waxing the car, and walking are the tedium that frees my thinking. I work on novels, current problems (like tearing up the back yard and creating a drought tolerant space), and short stories. I probably stayed at IBM for all those years because it was so freeing. My mind was rarely required in that bureaucracy. So here I was today, picking berries, thinking, dreaming, wondering, soaking up sun and fresh air, and worrying about zombies.

The blackberries, like the blueberries, squash and peaches, are amazing. Our weather, after a fast, heated start, cooled substantially in July and August. Nights benefit from cool mountain air that drops the temp to the mid 50s on most days. Fabuliciously sweet blackberries are being quickly accrued.

3. The radio plugs songs from 1983 on the way home. It’s their thing, celebrating the music of different graduating classes.

Theme from Flashdance. Yes, “Owner of a Lonely Heart.” The Tubes. “Hungry Like a Wolf.” Toto IV.

1983 put me at Kadena Air Station, Okinawa, Japan. We were mid-tour in ’83, and living on the economy, less than 600 square feet, and no heat. It was great fun.

Kadena, with jaunts to Korea, Thailand, China, Singapore, mainland Japan, Hong Kong and Hawaii, was a memorable experience. Beautiful Pacific views. Typhoons. One earthquake. In between these matters were military issues, parties and college classes. They were ancient times, free of the Internet and computers, satellite TV, or cell phones that took photos and videos. CDs were just coming out, and VHS battled Beta Max for supremacy, but it was also a zombie-less era.

4. We were gone two hours. Seventeen pints are the result. I probably ate another pint. My wife is a faster picker than me. Perhaps I’m eating more of my pick. Or maybe my wandering mind slows me down. It could just be that she’s more focused, with quicker, more nimble fingers.

Arriving home, we check on the cats and conduct visual inspections for ticks and zombie bites (on us, not the cats). Neither are discovered (ticks and zombie bites – the cats are found, asleep).

The freezing machine (my wife) is activated. The freezer is precariously full of frozen fruits and vegetables. This year’s crops have been bountiful.

Einstein would have enjoyed the morning.

5

Computer Coming Back

My HP Envy is on the way back to my home. Although I’m happy, that’s not news, and it’s not prompting this post.

What prompts this post is how it’s coming back. Sent Fed Ex 2-Day service, picked up on 5th, it’ll reach me on the 9th. That’s a sign of our times, that 2 days = 4 days without a wince of embarrassment. It goes right along there with logic that says the answer to gun violence is to arm more people with guns. That ketchup is a vegetable. That water boarding is not torture, and that torture rewards us with the truth.

That America is the world’s greatest country. That corporations are people, my friends. That companies care about their customers above their profits, that market corrections will fix problems, that climate change can be ignored by legislating the words out of the public’s view, that charter schools run for profit will do better than public schools supported by taxes, that professional sports stadiums are good for the local economy and do much more than serve the wealthy owners, that things were better for everyone ‘in the good old days,’ and that the answer to war, is more war.

0

A Beautiful Time

I had a beautiful time last night, thank you. I again attended a friend’s birthday. This friend is 90, vivacious, intelligent, artistic and fun. She is, like, another role model for when I’m 90, or better, for when I’m sixty. She enjoys life with a buoyant spirit. Her home is rich with art, especially her own. She presented me with a piece of art last year of a curled cat sleeping with the serene sweetness cats project, but with ears tilted and attuned, listening, announcing, I am asleep, and I am aware.

Also met some new folks and visited with some charming friends I’d not seen in a year, who came back for the bday celebs. In talking with one, Mo, about my science fiction writing (they should know not to ask me as a writer, what are you writing, because you’ll be informed, in depth), and how I play with concepts regarding technology granting virtual immortality through serial resurrections, she talked about how troubling she finds these ideas. Which I react with as, yea! Good. Tell me more.

“I don’t want to share my body or abilities to meet the challenge, I want to meet the challenge but nurturing, growing and developing what and who I am.” I love this humanistic point of view. I wanted to debate merits and points, but it was a birthday party.

I was also introduced to a Belgium IPA with tangerine tones that lit up my beer buds in a pleased way. Besides that, the food was delicious, all contributed by attendees. I met more of the party honoree’s family and friends and became re-acquainted with her son. We share a name but he’s so much more charming. I always enjoy our encounters.

Hope you all meet such wonderful people, and enjoy beautiful times. The world is wealthy with both.

3

Blog at WordPress.com.

Up ↑