Vol. 67 - Memories Light the Corners of My Mind

On remembering. Or not.

I can’t remember anything.

A few years ago, I played a show in New York City to promote a solo album I made. And I think I drove up from Chapel Hill to play the show. But I don’t remember anything about it. It's not an easy drive, eight hours each way, including the legendary traffic of the DC I-95 corridor and the gridlock of the New York City megalopolis. And I think the band was some mix of old bandmates from New Jersey and a few guys I recruited down here in North Carolina. Not to mention the show itself, which I’m sure was full of some of my dearest friends and family. But I don’t remember.

My whole life, my memory has been tremendous. I remember a lot and I remember vividly. Details. Places. Backstories. The only thing I'm not good with is numbers. Dates, times, even entire years mean little to me. Otherwise, I can often recall things down to the most minute detail. People’s names and faces, their accents and hairstyles. Even which neighborhoods they lived in. I remember certain art exhibits I’ve seen, the galleries that hosted them, and which piece was my favorite. I remember thousands of lines from thousands of scenes from thousands of movies. I can usually recall the first time I saw those movies. I remember even more when it comes to music and record labels and producers and studio musicians.

But lately, I find my memory disappearing and I'm wondering how much of it has to do with being a father; both from the exhaustion that has plagued our last five years and the fact that my brain is now occupied with keeping these two things alive (three if you count Emily's father, who lives in our home, under our care).

I’m constantly losing my wallet and keys, things I’ve never, ever had a history of misplacing. The other day I got in my truck and drove into downtown Chapel Hill on some sort of errand only to arrive in town completely forgetting what I was there to do. When I meet people now, I forget their names almost immediately. I just don’t remember shit the way I used to.

Case in point: I start every newsletter with the ending. In fact, I start almost everything I write with the ending. Not the words, per se, but the destination. I always know where I’m going to end up before I ever leave.

Which means that I set out writing this week’s newsletter with a clear ending, an idea or concept that everything else is leading up to.

And here I am, with absolutely no fucking idea what I was going to say about memory and fatherhood and all of that.

Not a clue.