December 6, 2010
Writing and Research
Motivation and Impetus
Chris Prentice
It was the summer of 1996, and I sat in the television room of my mother’s
new house in upstate New York. Her and my stepfather had recently moved across
the country, and this was my first visit to their new home. The heat of the summer
was different than what I was used to in California, thick humidity paired with a
constant stickiness. Afternoon sunlight filled the room, as my mother and I sat
watching the Summer Olympics. Although I normally would have protested the
programming, I sat quietly and watched. It was her company that I was invested in,
She rested in her dark leather recliner chair, as I sat on the couch. Between
us, was a small square coffee table that had traveled with her from Los Angeles to
New York. I remember how strange it was to see the piece of furniture out of its
original context. On top of it, a bowl of peanut M&Ms. All of the green one’s skillfully
removed from the bowl, ending up in my mouth. There was little conversation
between us that afternoon, just the sound of the television and the comfort of each
other’s presence.
detail that my mind can afford to give up. What was it that happened right before
this moment, or right after? I just can’t remember. And I am left distressed,
accepting the loss of those vacant moments. Perhaps the acceptance that precious
memories of my childhood have faded over time has driven my current research
I am afraid that my memories will be lost over time if I do not carefully file
and store them away. I believe their organization must be meticulous. But memories
are not tangible and cannot be handled like the artifacts I associate with them. In
fact, they operate on their own terms, leaving me powerless to their comings and
goings. At times I struggle to remember the sound of my mother’s voice, but can
recall the act of eating green M&Ms the last day I saw her. These inconsistencies and
these memories through documenting and saving the present moment. The brief act
of snapping a photograph or saving a file reassures me that the moment will not be
lost in my mind, and will be available for reflection at any point. How often do I go
back and filter through these growing bins of digital memories? Hardly ever. How
often do I think about that single afternoon in the summer of 1996? Almost daily.
moments of our lives. The memories build upon one another to create magical
scenes that we are able to recreate in our minds. A photograph might ignite such a
stream of thoughts, but the actual object is incapable of transcending time and
space. Without the fluidity and unpredictability of our minds behavior, we might
never trigger lost memories. However it is a gamble, because there is always the