Memorycemetery

The title of this post is what it is exactly: my lost memory returned to me by post .

It’s a weird feeling, you know. A while ago I’ve read somewhere about one research on human conscioussnes. They tried to locate our memories in brain. Where do we store memories exactly?

So they selected different people. Their brains were severely damaged, but all of them had memories. Some of the patients went through really freaky accidents, with massive parts of brains amputated or missing as the result.

So they started to exclude suspected parts of our brain in charge of the memories one by one …

OK, it’s not here…It’s missing in this case…and not there either…

Skipping the details, though they had hundreds of cases covering all the possible kinds of damage few times over, they couldn’t locate it precisely.

Apparently our brain stores information as a hologram; even if a part of it damaged, the rest can make up for it.

Some scientists even came to the conclusion that our memories are stored outside of our brains; we can just tap in into that field of global consciousness (something pulsing, fluctuating, shiny and shapeless as I imagine it) and get from there what we need. The electric impulses of our brains are tuned differently, and in accordance with our individual frequencies we pick data produced by us in the past. That could be also an explanation of how some people can read past and memories of other people…

Anyway, it’s a fascinating topic. I don’t have a clue there my memories are; its like seeing the world through a looking glass: small things become big, and big things get lost.

I wrote to a friend of mine a while ago about this idea of storing dreams and memories; he forwarded me back my letter to him sent some years ago.That’s funny, as I completely forgot about these things. Unfortunatelly it’s in Russian though typed in latin letters…well, you can skip it, if you can’t read it. Sorry about that.

…Priveton gigantski. Lopatil pochtu i nashol otlichnoe vospominanie…
Pochtovoe vospominanie * * * * *

zdrawstuj, ivan!

spasibo za zamechatelnoe pismo i poznawatelnye foto.super.prishli esche. mne oni ochen ponrawilis. ja, sejchas ne v londone, a w shotlandii, v stolnom grade edinburge.
ja uehal v edinburg takim obrazom:
wyshel iz doma, wstretil zabludivshujusja devushku. ona skazala, chto v anglii budet esche 4,5 dnja, i ne znaet chto posmoret v londone, i ,gljadja na menja, reshila, chto ja mogu ej chto-nibud posowetovat.
uchitywaja, chto posle 3 dnej zdes ona okazalas v rajone, o suschestvovanii kotorogo do menja stali dohodit tolko sluhi posle 2 let zhizni zdes, ja skazal, chto ona, pohozhe, uzhe wse zdes posmotrela i posowetowal poehat kuda-nibud esche, naprimer, w shotlandiyu.posle chego ona sprosila menja, esli ja hochu sostavit ej kompaniju.ja skazal, chto snachala hotel by pobritsja i zabrat zubnuyu schetku. posle chego my poehali na wokzal, kupili bilety na blizhajshij avtobus…i noch na avtobuse sdelaet kogo ugodno druzjami.obzornuju ekskursiju ja provel bystro,tk zdes ne pervyj raz i ochen edinburg ljublju,napominaet mne piter chem-to…, i zakonchil professionalno v odnom izwestnom mne matrosskom bare, gde my bystrenko nakachalis:tk mozhesh sebe predstavit kakoj byl wybor i kakogo whiskey. my reshili poprobovat kazhdyj, chto neskazanno obradovalo barmena( i menja :)). on skazal mne zagovorschicheskim shepotom: nikolaj komarov…i postuchal sebja po lbu, a odin ryzhij kosoglazyj ryadom dobavil:mihail gorbachev! i v vostorge ot svoej erudizii i nashej lyubvi k shotlandii kupil nam po pinte guinessa v pridachu i skazal, chto ego zowut john mcleod. ostatok nashego razgovora v moej pamjati okutywaet tuman…mestnyj rock-band, rwuschij ushi na szene,12 whiskey, pinta guinessa, kruzhaschie nad okeanom chajki, i ja, poyuschij dewushke i shotlandzam russkie pesni:
oj, moroz, moroz… (wse horom krichat: oj!oj!) i naposledok: “16 chelowek na sunduk mertweza, yo-ho-ho!i butylka roma!pej, i djawol tebya dovedet do konza…yo-ho-ho!i butylka roma!”
eirini skazala, chto u ee papy byl nebolshoj tanker (!):0, i poetomu ona doch matrosa.posle chego my prihvatili s soboj paru butylok ponrawiwshegosja nam whiskey,nedopituyu pintu guinessa i poshli iskat lodku, kotoraya mogla by nas perewezti na nebolshoj ostrov v buhte, gde stoit majak.
lodku my ne nashli, wernulis v gorod i promenjali odnu iz butylok na urok igry na wolynke.eirini skazala, chto po-nemezki wolynka budet dudelsack. ja skazal, chto na odin pravilnyj kilt(yubku) uhodit do 8m tkani i pod nim ne nosjat nizhnego belja. shotlandez na ee razgorewshijsja interes skazal, chto on igraet dlja turistov po 10 chasov na holode, poetomu on lichno trusy nosit.
na etom my rasstalis s etim renegatom.
ja kogda-to priehal na berega tumannogo albiona s teatrom, i u nas v edinburge byla malenkaja gastrol.s teh por esli ja priezzhayu syuda, ja ostanavliwayus u stariny doogie.
u stariny doogie est internet, eirini spit, u menja bashka treschit po shwam posle bessonnoj nochi w awtobuse i zagula ne mogu usnut. zdes rannee pasmurnoe utro i morosit dozhdj i ja pishu tebe eto pismo.
segodnja hoteli poehat na loch ness, da gde by sily najti…
w lyubom sluchae, zawtra v london.
takie dela…
uvidet nessi i umeret

Boris Kislitsin

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