MEMORIES

It’s interesting to me how everyone’s brains are so different. Not so much in the way that ‘you might be better with numbers and I’m better with words’, but rather our memories. How we involuntarily choose to store certain information, and not just facts and anecdotes, but the things that happen in our lives.

I’ve always felt as though I remember every waking moment I’ve ever lived. Obviously, that’s truly impossible. There are many days and evenings that wore similar colours and emotions, they blur into one big pretty picture. But if someone were to bring up a specific event to me, I can almost always transport myself back to the moment. I could tell you what most people were wearing, why we came to be there, a few conversations that may have been had. This is not me bragging about my fantastic memory– it’s not even photographic. Perhaps I can reminisce clearly on a moment in time, but I couldn’t tell you all the information on a page after looking at it for a mere minute. I just find it fascinating how these moments are banked and filed in the back of our minds.

Sometimes I’ll be lost in my own head and a memory from the age of six or seven will surface, and I know that I probably haven’t really visualised that memory at all in my life since the moment it happened. What brought it forward to my immediate thoughts? Besides the train reaction of thoughts that transported me to that memory, what part of my brain decided that I might need it one day to understand the way I feel about certain things?

What really rattles me is repressed memories. If anyone hasn’t seen the Netlfix series ‘The Keepers’ you need to do so, immediately. It might not be the most pleasant of experiences if you err on the religious side of things. Heck, it’s not pleasant at all really, but it certainly consolidated my opinion in that area of things. Anyway, a woman in that series experienced sexual abuse for a number of years while she was a teen, repressed those memories, and they all came flooding back to her when she was about 50 and happily married with children. She was forced to relive those moments and accept this horrifying thing that had happened to her.

How are we to know that we don’t have handfuls of repressed memories? Ones that may never float to the top. Ones that fester and grow weeds and force us to become a version of ourself that we cannot control. Not trying to get dark here, but even the depths of our mind is uncertain. Maybe we don’t ever truly know ourselves. I definitely read something the other day (couldn’t tell you where– there’s my fantastic memory in action) about how the person we think we are is different from the way each person views and experiences us. So we’re not always the person we know ourselves to be, but a multifaceted gemstone that glitters for some and looks dull to others. No matter who you are or what you do in life, not everyone is going to like you. Some people are pieces of your puzzle and others are of a whole different game.

I’m a very nostalgic person (I even wrote a piece on that, have a flick through the categories section to find it) so sifting through my memories is something I do often. I like to see how time has changed things: relationships, appearances, our overall outlook. When I’m lost reminiscing it occurs to me how crucial time is to the memories we have filed. Does our opinion of something alter the way we remember it? A certain moment in my life looks completely different to the others who were there– maybe I thought I was being hilarious and they thought I was being kind of a bitch.

The moments that link together to paint the portrait of our lives are simply that: ours. How we remember these moments and let them unintentionally define who we are is, to me, uncertain. We can control how we respond to situations, of course, and that tells a lot about who we are, but can we really control how we perceive and remember stuff?

There’s probably a scientific/psychological explanation for all of these musings. But I’ll leave them at that.

A.

 

 

Side note:

I often feel like when I write little observation/musing posts that it sounds like I’m leading up to a point that never eventuates. Let me know if you’re getting that vibe too. Not sure if I like that.

 

 

 

 

BIRTHDAY DEJAVU.

I remember last year when I wrote a blog post about how I had to change my ‘about me’. I had to change the age from 19 to 20. About two seconds ago, I was visiting my page and realised, that’s not me anymore. I’ve been 21 years old for the past month. It was time to edit my about me again.
Looking back on that post from a year ago, https://annikatague.wordpress.com/2014/10/21/a-slight-change-in-my-about-me/, a lot of things have changed and a lot of things have not.
I still worship Stephen Markley as a writer, but only recently have I begun divulging back into this passion. Some crippling anxiety was holding me back; as a writer and as a person in general. I feel like I’m finally on my way back and hopefully I’ll be finding new and exciting things to write about. I’m 21, I’m young, but I’m getting on, and I think it’s time I put some focus into the things I love to do, and work out how to spin them into a successful career. Look, I’m not stupid. I know that this is going to take some time, I haven’t even finished my degree for christ’s sake– I’m just feeling itchy!

For the past, I’m not even sure how long, I’ve felt pretty lost. I didn’t know what to do or where to go. I think this happens to most students in the midst of their degree. I feel like I’m not doing anything with my life, while actually, I’m doing a lot. I’m just starting off. But I guess, for me, I wish the launching of a career path ensued lots and lots of dough, meaning I could travel and learn all at once. I know, I knoooooow, “go on exchange!” everyone tells me. I really don’t have an excuse not to, except that I don’t really want to? That’s legit enough.

Some of my friends are moving out of home– to Sydney, to London, to anywhere but here. And I guess I feel a little trapped, and when I say trapped, I mean trapped by myself.
I’m not scared to leave, I just don’t know where I want to go. Moving out of home would require transferring university’s and would mean zero savings for travel. That just doesn’t seem like an option at this point. I have to buckle down for the next 2.5 years and finish off this degree, because if I defer, I don’t think I’ll ever go back. My good friend Elle has just made plans to polish off an intensive personal training course, and then she’s jetting off to live in New Zealand for three months-indefinitely. My boyfriend’s brother is going over there with some friends around the same time as well, and if Abel hadn’t suggest that we go and visit them for a few weeks during my uni break in June/July, I just think I would go crazy. Finally I have something to look forward to.
It’s crazy how quick things change, how we easily change our minds about what it is we want to do, based on certain circumstances. Earlier this year, Olivia and I were planning on setting off to Europe in two weeks time, for a crazy, drunken, winterland escapade! Neither of us predicted falling in love and settling into committed relationships (a little cocktail of vomit and swoon, I apologise).

I honestly don’t know what the point of this ramble was. Scroll through my entire blog and most of my posts wind up this way. They start out promising- full of purpose and with a solid point, and end up being a super lame spiel about my current emotions. I’m gonna peace out before this gets super sappy and I start talking more intently about love– because I’m known for that these days.

LOOK, I’VE BEEN BUSY

For someone who claims to have not cared a whole lot about uni (clearly a blatant lie I try to convince myself of) and only doing the bare minimum required, I was pretty busy over the whole exam period. Even though I literally had like, two proper exams. Either way, it’s been well over a month since I’ve completed those exams and those subjects for the rest of my life. Which is exciting, since the first thing I did after completing my final exam was downing a tequila shot and purchasing more than the average human’s necessary quantity of goon.

Point being, I can’t really use exams as a proper excuse for not writing or posting anything. I even managed myself a little position with http://www.thebigsmoke.com.au (which you should really check out, they post some super cool stuff) as a contributing writer in the hopes of expanding and improving my current portfolio. Again, back to the point; I’ve been lazy with writing on a larger scale than just my average little blog you see here. I’ve hardly even submitted anything to my editor, which is really negligent on my behalf, especially since this is an amazing opportunity to boost my career prospects. But worry no more, cause I am back. And hopefully more consistently.

I’ve decided to alter my degree at university (not quite sure whether I mentioned this, and as you recall I’m far too lazy to scroll through old posts and troll for the vague sentence in which I discuss it). This year I undertook study in a double degree of a Bachelor of Journalism and a Bachelor of International Studies. As of next year (if all transferring forms get approved) I will be studying a Bachelor of Communication and Media Studies (majoring in Journalism-Professional Writing) and a Bachelor of Creative Arts (majoring in creative writing). The decision to change degrees was not a difficult one, and it’s not to say that I didn’t enjoy my degree this year. It’s just that I took a real good look at what I wanted in the future. I want to write, I want to read, I want to help stories get out there; be they fictional or not. This new degree will help me achieve that. During a meeting with man who deals with these kinds of situations (he happens to be a Creative Writing lecture, so he was overly stoked in my decision to enter his field), he said to me, “This is a really great degree if you ever wanted to get into publishing and/or editing”, and that was when I knew this was the right choice. “That’s exactly what I want to get into”, I told him.

Soooooooooooo, anyways. I’m trying to get back into some writing. I’ve had ideas bubbling for the past few weeks, and when you forget to write shit down, it usually floats on into the room of requirement, never to be found again.

Today is the 23rd of December, or “Christmas Eve Eve” as we all know and love it. It doesn’t really feel like Christmas to me though. Apart from the obvious, it’s not fucking cold. What’s with that anyways? Like, I know it’s when Jesus was… born? Is that right? But Christmas should be filled with snow and pine trees and big fluffy sweaters. Australia really should’ve changed Jesus’ birthday to June or something. I guess the country doesn’t really have that sort of power though, it would kind of stuff up the system. But this year, my parents aren’t here. I’ve spent Christmas without my father before, just because he’s been occupied with his work situation over in the states, but this year my mother is there with him and us four kids are here, fending for ourselves. It’s not too much of an issue, since my grandmother has promised us a Christmas dinner. Which, allows me the glory of sleeping in after producing what will be one of 2014’s biggest and best hangovers.

However, despite the positive points to this Christmas day, I have one rather large complaint. Why am I in charge of cooking the god damn turkey? Who deemed me capable, responsible, trustworthy enough to cook and tend to the most important aspect of Christmas dinner. My grandmother ordered and purchased a rather large, succulent turkey and delivered it to our house. Myself, my three brothers, all standing there, chatting away as she tells us to place the turkey into the freezer until Tuesday morning (today, thank lordy mae that I remembered), when we should then move it into the fridge to defrost until Christmas morning. We all nodded, “Yes, Barbie, not a problem. We’ve got this covered”.

“Now, Annika”, she says. What? Me? Yeah, okay, what’s up? “I will bring over a list of instructions on how to prepare and cook the turkey on Christmas day, and I’ll come over about an hour before dinner to prepare the other things.”

This sentence was clearly directed at me, and no one else. I am to undertake the domestic housewife role and prepare the three males of the house a feast worth mouthwatering for. I’m gonna put it out there; she’s completely overestimated my abilities.

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Remember how way back at the beginning of this post how I made like, a large number of excuses for not writing and publishing any posts whatsoever, no matter how trivial they were? Yeah, so what started out to be a post about pre christmas jitters, turned into something that sat quietly in my drafts folder being like, “yeah sick, you forgot about me because you decided to get high with your friends at the beach. That’s cool man, that’s cool”.

It’a been a month and I’m just gonna shut the fuck up and press post because like, that was a near 900 words of my time. Time to get it into the world and maybe write some other stuff now that work has completely slowed down and I still have a whole month off until uni goes back. Somebody entertain me. Anybody?