The Past is an Ugly Animal

I've always had a good memory. It seemed important to remember in detail, maybe an early indication I would be a writer. In college, I told long-winded stories of the group of friends who catalyzed Font, Hofstra's literary magazine.

Yesterday, two younger members and I got together to exchange gifts. Christine is moving to Los Angeles in January to get started on her screenwriting career; John recently became a father; but, a large portion of what they wanted to do was reminisce. And once again, they sought my help:

"C'mon, Gerald. Who else?" they said, trying to recall the smallest bit players who "came to a couple of meetings" in the early days of the magazine.

I wanted to tell them I'd long since tired of recounting the past, that the detail they were looking for in most cases wouldn't bring everything together in a warm afterglow.

Maybe only I feel this way, having collected memories sooner than necessary. So I indulged them: "Put it through the machine, see what comes out."

Maybe they feel it's okay to forget the past because I'll remember it for them. They might be the the first ones to tell me, "We're not all about the past. It's just fun."

Then why don't we talk about something else?

I have a feeling people wouldn't wish for more time if they used each moment as best they could, and discarded it when done. There's great opportunity in the fact that life is live. We can't savor each good time as long as we'd like, but we also don't have to let each bad time weigh us down.