why it matters to remember
14 aug, 2024
cecil richard’s under a star called sun (external link) is a reader-led short story about a narrator where “the trajectory of [his] ship is unchanging.” he (i like to see myself on the ship; you may too) recalls that the coffee “never tastes as good as the ones you get from the cafes back home,” as a quiet matter-of-fact.
now, it’s very unlikely that the coffee could be so physically or chemically different than the ones here on earth. rather, the difference would make you laugh. i propose it is akin to how coffee your loved one makes is always better than starbucks (no offence). it is not the chemistry of your mug that matters, but rather the chemistry of your mind. but what is so important about this? he, remembers what earth felt like and what a world full of love feels like. even in his solitary moments with just coffee, his mind takes the trip back to home. it takes a very lonely astronaut to wish they were back home. we usually climb the ladder to the stars when we are alone on the soil.
life on this ship is repetitive, structured, prescribed. he checks for bugs, the soil, and the dust on the leaves. but the most beautiful part is when “i hum to them,” when he shares a piece of himself with the plants that shall never utter a word in reply. but why? the same reason as to why he keeps sending messages back to earth that the intended recipient may never receive. “in a normal message,” he says that he’d write, “i’m so excited to see you again.” but, is he not eager to see his loved ones? i would be. so why does he make the distinction between this message and a “normal message”? he loves her (i like to imagine someone i love here); he loves her as much as the human heart can.
but what was the point of remembering here? where is the metaphor? it lies in the coffee, the songs he hums, the abnormal message he has written so far. in an attempt to keep on remembering, he encodes the memories into his life. a personal memo, a joke, even. “oh atlas holds up the firmament and endures one day at a time”: by holding onto these memories so vast and heavy, has he not become atlas himself? is he not a giant punished to bear the weight of people he holds so dear? is memory, as a collective, not a world of its own? i have only asked questions here, but i hope you understand what i am getting at. it will make sense soon, i promise.
“there is a room here [...] in this room i can recreate the last time i saw you”: this is the burden of memory. the reason that makes us atlas to our own world of memories. even for a lonely astronaut on a ship far, far away, the pull of memory (gravitational, i presume) is still felt. it melts down to the very nature of your life: to the way you walk, to the way ‘f’ loops on the top, to the way you laugh with a hand to your mouth. the people we love become a part of the mosaic that colours us. in loving, we (partially) become them. but, what point is there for a part of us we don’t remember? he views his last memory with her “over and over and over and over,” i could only imagine how much he would be willing to give up to remember this again, fresh and new.
he recreates “a perfectly ordinary august day,” where they “were meeting for brunch at a cafe.” how ordinary? but it objectively isn’t. no one recreates the ordinary. no one burdens the mind with the ordinary. that’s why it matters, because memories worth remembering are precisely the ones we forget first. we recreate them so many times that the definite memory becomes, “i think you ordered a fancy sandwich.” he remembers her preference, but not specifically what she ordered that day. it must have been long, we have to forgive his forgetting. but he remembers one thing: “you stepped on the 19 tram to north coburg and smiled between the pneumatic doors beautiful under the fluorescent light you said see you next time.” it was a long thing to remember, but it matters.
“was it sunny or cloudy that day? what did you order? what did we talk about? what did your voice sound like? what was the expression on your face when we said goodbye?” oh no, the tragedy of memory has struck again. forgetting. the smallest facts matter. i would rather want to remember how i giggled with my friend at asda with a cake in hand, than remembering that the cake was for another friend’s birthday (both precious, precious memories, though). “the memory gets corrupted with each new iteration of it [...] like a cassette tape played over and over [...] you’d laugh at this comparison too, the deep fried meme of memory”
“but one day the memory will be so distorted that i won’t get to see you anymore.” oh, how cruel time is, erasing the very imprints of itself from our minds, like a careful thief retracing its steps, wiping them off. “i wish i had made more of an effort to remember i wish i had taken more photos” i wish i knew your voice, the distinct shape of your face; maybe even in a dream i would have remembered. “when a perfectly ordinary day turns into a perfectly extraordinary day who do you blame for misfilling a memory in the file cabinets of your brain?” you. only you. don’t give yourself more reason to resent. leave chance and room for love, for remembering.
“if nothing else, [...] cherish the approximate” don’t wait until you too are on an unchanging trajectory away from home, where she is at “the far edges of outer space”. have faith in your love, wait for the day when everything seems right, say “i love you” often, send that message, and most importantly remember, make an effort to remember. this life under a star called sun is neither richard’s nor of the 28-pixel man; rather, it is yours and mine. make sure you drink the coffee where it tastes best.
so, as always, until next time!