Memory Alone
I've recently come to terms with the fact that our lives are about action for memory rather than experience. We stumble about the brutal path of existence, falling all over ourselves and each other for even the faintest glimpse of an experience. Of course, we usually redefine or re-quantify our personal holy grails as aspirations, goals and/or dreams, but in the end they all boil down to the same denominator--a fleeting experience. Every effort borne of our intention is directed toward a fixed moment. You shall never truly live within it or explore it with an adequacy worthy of your desire to achieve it. Half of forever this moment waits in the distance, and the rest of forever it recedes into darkness. It seems both so ironic and cruel, the incompatibility of human existence with the immutable dictates of the passage of time.
I know this may be a relatively abstract concept to absorb, but I find that framing my thoughts in such a fashion enables me to employ self-indulgent illustrative sexual allegories. In this instance, said sexual allegory would be my first threesome. My desire to watch (and to a significant lesser priority, participate) as two women made the affirmative step of dispensing with the otherwise requisite need for a penis dates back to my near infancy. There was just something about it. Some think God rested on the seventh day, I, on the other hand, believe he created lesbians. Or--better yet, hot bi-curious college co-eds who both happened to miss their plane home for Thanksgiving.
Sure, the pursuit of this fantasy had humble beginnings. The humiliating process of prospecting for lesbian porn in the pre-Internet era was alone enough to stunt my growth at a humble 5'9''. But as I grew older I saw fantasy drawing nearer to fact. No longer did my girlfriends immediately rebuff my sapphic suggestions. What was once an outright unwillingness suddenly became an issue of tempered inevitability. What was once an issue of their desire was now an issue of my own deservedness. Yes, there was much work ahead, but almost overnight it became my game to lose. Only a fool could squander such an opportunity.
Sparing my audience the tale of subtle (and often disengenous) manipulations that ultimately enabled the achievement of my fantasy some 12 years ago, suffice it to say--it happened. As "Ami" slowly unclasped "Debbie's" bra, I thought to myself, "I've arrived. It's actually here. Happening." Although it lasted for nearly two hours, it could never have lasted long enough. Suddenly this life long ambition had decayed into memory. It had come and gone. All that remained was the best facsimile of reality my brain could reconstruct. Once forever in the future, now forever in the past.
Stepping back and reflecting honestly, it becomes eminently clear that I was living for the memory of this particular experience rather than for the experience itself--for the memory is all I can keep. Did this memory make me a better person or a more satisfied individual? Most certainly it did not. In fact, all it accomplished was the stoking of my mature sexual desires. At this point in my life, "Ami" would have to stick an entire TIVO up "Debbie's" ass to evoke a similar response in me. Well, maybe just the remote control, but you get my point.
The moral of the story? It has nothing to do with "Amy or Debbie" or if they ever really existed at all. The point is that we can substitute just about anything or anyone for "Ami" and "Debbie." A vacation, a home, a job, a wife, a family. When all is said and done, all that's going to be left is your memory of them and theirs of you. We are all living for memory alone, and, thus, memory is proof that we are--and will always be--alone.
I've recently come to terms with the fact that our lives are about action for memory rather than experience. We stumble about the brutal path of existence, falling all over ourselves and each other for even the faintest glimpse of an experience. Of course, we usually redefine or re-quantify our personal holy grails as aspirations, goals and/or dreams, but in the end they all boil down to the same denominator--a fleeting experience. Every effort borne of our intention is directed toward a fixed moment. You shall never truly live within it or explore it with an adequacy worthy of your desire to achieve it. Half of forever this moment waits in the distance, and the rest of forever it recedes into darkness. It seems both so ironic and cruel, the incompatibility of human existence with the immutable dictates of the passage of time.
I know this may be a relatively abstract concept to absorb, but I find that framing my thoughts in such a fashion enables me to employ self-indulgent illustrative sexual allegories. In this instance, said sexual allegory would be my first threesome. My desire to watch (and to a significant lesser priority, participate) as two women made the affirmative step of dispensing with the otherwise requisite need for a penis dates back to my near infancy. There was just something about it. Some think God rested on the seventh day, I, on the other hand, believe he created lesbians. Or--better yet, hot bi-curious college co-eds who both happened to miss their plane home for Thanksgiving.
Sure, the pursuit of this fantasy had humble beginnings. The humiliating process of prospecting for lesbian porn in the pre-Internet era was alone enough to stunt my growth at a humble 5'9''. But as I grew older I saw fantasy drawing nearer to fact. No longer did my girlfriends immediately rebuff my sapphic suggestions. What was once an outright unwillingness suddenly became an issue of tempered inevitability. What was once an issue of their desire was now an issue of my own deservedness. Yes, there was much work ahead, but almost overnight it became my game to lose. Only a fool could squander such an opportunity.
Sparing my audience the tale of subtle (and often disengenous) manipulations that ultimately enabled the achievement of my fantasy some 12 years ago, suffice it to say--it happened. As "Ami" slowly unclasped "Debbie's" bra, I thought to myself, "I've arrived. It's actually here. Happening." Although it lasted for nearly two hours, it could never have lasted long enough. Suddenly this life long ambition had decayed into memory. It had come and gone. All that remained was the best facsimile of reality my brain could reconstruct. Once forever in the future, now forever in the past.
Stepping back and reflecting honestly, it becomes eminently clear that I was living for the memory of this particular experience rather than for the experience itself--for the memory is all I can keep. Did this memory make me a better person or a more satisfied individual? Most certainly it did not. In fact, all it accomplished was the stoking of my mature sexual desires. At this point in my life, "Ami" would have to stick an entire TIVO up "Debbie's" ass to evoke a similar response in me. Well, maybe just the remote control, but you get my point.
The moral of the story? It has nothing to do with "Amy or Debbie" or if they ever really existed at all. The point is that we can substitute just about anything or anyone for "Ami" and "Debbie." A vacation, a home, a job, a wife, a family. When all is said and done, all that's going to be left is your memory of them and theirs of you. We are all living for memory alone, and, thus, memory is proof that we are--and will always be--alone.
VIEW 7 of 7 COMMENTS
kayliane:
happy new year
hotcurry:
How have you been?