Vanish
Back in February, my friends and I went on an espresso martini excursion in DC. We went to a bunch of bars and tried their best attempts at an espresso martini. It was fun, and I think it’s a cool way to bond while taste testing. It was a good night—great even. But something strange did occur.
No, the strangeness has nothing to do with my friends. Actually, it’s more so what didn’t occur. That night I suggested we go to Union Market in DC to try this speakeasy I visited with my ex-girlfriend nearly a year ago. However, when we got there I couldn’t find it despite remembering the location. It was hidden in an alley nestled between a few food spots’ backdoors, but it wasn’t there any longer. The speakeasy had seemingly disappeared in a way. “Where had it gone?”, I thought as I asked neighboring bars about it. None of the bartenders nor security in the area had any idea what I was talking about. I could describe it vividly because this speakeasy/bar had black & white tile floors, bright red counter accents and this stairway to enter. All of my attempts to find this place ultimately failed; it was also frigid outside so we left to try another spot. Somehow the speakeasy was in nobody’s immediate recollection but mine. It was if the speakeasy had vanished from their memories, or my memory of it had at least.
Does something only exists if we can remember it? This question pestered me for the entire night as we downed espresso martini after espresso martini. The whole ordeal of not finding the speakeasy was anxiety-inducing. Had I gone mad, or had I simply forgotten? I spoke in a recent post about how memories can be fragmented, how memories can suddenly be compartmentalized and forgotten; and, of course, I am very talented at disassociating from/compartmentalizing memories of old—even the good ones. However, I wanted to remember this night because it was a vital one. It was a great night of romance and fun. Who doesn’t love stumbling upon a bar and enjoying its strange but warming pleasantries with a lover? It wasn’t as if the night was terrible or traumatic in any way; yet, the bar, my full recollection of the night and my joy of it (momentarily) had vanished. There are few times where I wish I didn’t forget moments. It’s awfully embarrassing when someone says hello, and I cannot remember the wonderful moments we shared in the past. I have to mask my ignorance with a smile and some selective banter to convince them that I do recollect the story. It’s not fun usually. Perhaps, the moment with them never existed because I can’t remember it, but they do. Does something only exists if everyone remembers it but you?
Fragmented memories of my romantic past have haunted me this year while on sabbatical. It’s not like the majority of those memories are even cherished at this point, but my soul seems to hold on to them. Those memories are no longer suppressed by the incoming experiences of new interests—which in retrospect was unintentionally useful. They float up, grab and drown me every now and then. It’s as if my mind or the universe wants these to be a part of my process, my romantic sabbatical. Reminders are useful when you’re open to learning more about yourself; but, after the lesson, are those memories or only the emotions still needed? I’ve wrestled with these puzzling thoughts for weeks and will continue to do so all year more than likely. Maybe those memories of love and life won’t ever vanish.