I'm learning a little routine here in Bratislava. There's a morning dance we do, in my grandparents' kitchen, and I've memorized almost all the parts. They have a small kitchen and a big kitchen table and there are certain steps and dodges we perform to set the table, make the tea and break our fast. We've pared it down to something functional and elegant, accommodating each others styles and preferences.
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Yesterday night, just after the first stars had come out, I was outside in the courtyard. I looked up to see Orion's Belt moving across the sky! What magic is this, I thought? Then, I realized it was a flock of geese that had arranged itself into familiar constellations.
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My grandparents' washing machine has several cycles. Along with knits and delicates, there is the memories setting. This is a fantastic machine, I think. Not only does it wash away mustard and red wine, but the very circumstances that put those stains there in the first place. Remember when you spilled that drink on the picnic blanket and the stain looked like Kamchatka? I'd rather not put that one in the laundry.
I heard a program on the radio about memory a while back. The program is called Radiolab, and it's one of my favorites. They were examining the nature of memory and cited a study which found that the more we remember a memory, the more that we think about it, the farther it strays from the reality it originally reflected. We don't access memories like we access files on a hard drive, but actively reconstruct them every time we think of them. The memories we seldom call up are closer to "truth" than those we think about a lot. I think that explains a lot.
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Last night Janko and I went skating. There's a skating rink in the main square in Bratislava where you can rent skates. We borrowed a pair each and set off on a circuit. Just after putting on the skates, I felt this sinking feeling. Why do I always forget that I truly dislike skating until the very moment I put my formerly warm foot into a vice-like shell of frozen leather? There's something about the feel of rough ice under my feet, something about the discomfort of ice skates that I can't bring myself to overcome. We circled around and around, colored lights, Madonna songs and amazingly coordinated children swirled about us. We were arm in arm, my cousin leaning in, shouting into my ear about the breakthrough he'd had that day with his hardcore punk rock band, how they'd really jammed at practice. It should have been so nice to be there and I very much wanted to be glad with the world, but all I could think about was how much I hated skating and so I finally said so and we returned the skates and went to drink some wine instead. I'm never skating again, I swear.
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I am taking the night train to Berlin to visit Hilda on Saturday!
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