Memories And The Formation Of Reality - commit error
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Memory - Physiology - Biology - FuseSchoolCarr's book, the Night of the Gunis about that change, mostly. His story is one of the downtrodden man coming around to a sweeter life; classic. But what's also striking is Carr's self awareness.
That in order to confront his past—which is muddled through drug addiction and time—he has to first fact check it using a reporter's toolbox, interviewing ghosts from his past, police records and medical files. One lesson, as it pertains to this week's theme: Memories can deceive and escape us because it's sometimes safer and easier to let them. And so, facing down the darker facts of one's life takes a type of courage seldom seen, but demonstrated, by Carr, in this book. I am not a gun guy.
That is bedrock. And that includes buying one, carrying one, and, most especially, pointing one. I've been on the wrong end a few times, squirming and asking people to calm the fuck down.
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But walking over to my best friend's house with a gun jammed in my pants? No chance. That did not fit my story, the one about the white boy who took a self-guided tour of some of life's less savory hobbies before becoming an upright citizen. Being the guy who waved a gun around made me a crook, or worse, a full-on nut ball. We were not having an argument, we were trying Annd remember.
Power. It’s in the Air.
I had gone to his house with a video camera and a tape recorder in pursuit of the past. By now the statutes were up, no charges in abeyance, no friendship at stake. Donald is not prone to lies.
He has his faults: He has wasted a gorgeous mug and his abundant talent on whiskey and worse, but he is a stand-up guy, and I have seen him bullshit only when the law is involved. Still, I know what I know—Descartes called it "the holy music of the self"-and I believe that I was not a person who owned or used a gun.
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The Night of the Gun had stuck in my head because it suggested that I was such a menace that my best friend not only had to call the cops on me but wave a piece in my face. I didn't hold it against him—Donald was far from violent, and maybe I had it coming. I doubt that he would have shot me no matter what I did. But now that memory lay between us. Sort of like that gun. Memories are like that. They live between synapses and between the people who hold them.]
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