Returning to Los Angeles for another summer at CTY has forced me to rework my definition of memory and, in turn, redefine myself.
Memories are everything. At any one moment, we all are no more than compilations of our memories. Memories form who we are. Even this present moment, this instant, we are functioning via memory. The onslaught of sensory information is only relevant because we can retain it and, in turn, interpret it.
Memories braid together with our hardwiring to make us. Memories guide us. For every decision, we consult, whether consciously or unconsciously, our bank of previous experiences. We can't help it. The story of our past leads us to our status right now. In my case, sitting at Loyola Marymount University, fighting off the flu.
The notion that we are no more than our memories incites some difficult problems. Most notably, one could deduce with Calvinistic determination that we are living out scripted lives. Such as: that terse uncertainty when you tried to decide what new car to buy, that impossible decision about where to go to college, it wasn't real. Your decision was already made. You have no free will.
To push this premise a tad further: each prior decision decides the next decision, which adds another record to the memory bank that decides the next decision...and so on...so by the time we take our first steps as a child -- even earlier -- our whole lives are decided. There is no randomness. No free choice. Not really. Our lives could not turn out any other way.
I'm not alone in expressing discomfort with such a notion. I believe the future is unknowable, and not just because reasons of complexity theory -- which says that, like the weather, there is far too much information to ever process to predict the next step.
Rather, I believe the future is unknowable because the nature of our memories, namely, that they are hugely dynamic. Psychologists have proven it again and again -- memory is darn slippery, not a thing we should blindly trust. And it's my return to CTY at LMU that has reinforced the slippery nature of memory.
Familiar surroundings are peppered with new people. Familiar schedules are rearranged to accomodate new ambitions. Last year it was training for the Marathon on the beach. This year, it is trying to avoid a wicked case of the flu scandalizing camp. Still, the similarities in time and place create a living memory of my time spent here one year ago that runs side-by-side with the current one. This means I am constantly comparing the new with the old. More often than not, they don't fit together. I compare new people with old ones, in turn changing my conception of both. I compare this year's dances with last year's, this year's Casino night with last year's, this year's laser tag, beach days, floor dynamic, In-N-Out stops, etc., with last year's. I can't help it.
Wash. Rinse. Repeat.
The struggle is that all this new information forces me to reinterpret my memories. They get jarred loose, and when they settle back down, they are different. My general tendency is to look back fondly on last year and wonder why this year isn't living up. Nothing good ever comes out of this comparison. I grow wistful for the old people and old ways. I grow frustrated that the new people and new ways won't conform to the old people and old ways -- the ways it should be.
I was hestitant to return to CTY because I thought it was anti-progressive. I didn't want a mere repeat performance. I wanted something new. Little did I know that it would all be new. Even though the stage is the same, the characters have changed. There's a new band and an old band, and they both have very different tunes. But the most different tune is the one that results when they play together, changing and competing with one another, comparing and contrasting with one another, keeping things fresh and new and confusing.
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