Ordinary Flashes

We’ve all heard that when we die, our entire lives flash before our eyes. Some of us have even experienced this phenomenon, usually during potentially lethal accidents. And most of us have come to believe in this phenomenon, to the point where we expect it when the time finally comes for us to face the Grim Reaper – or at least when we have a serious accident. I think I believe in this phenomenon. I think I’m planning on experiencing a life-flash during my final moments on earth.

But has anybody else experienced mini-flashes, particularly as they’ve approached middle age? I have. It’s been happening for a while now, and there’s no apparent end in sight. I don’t mean to exclude other age groups. If you’re in your 20s, or even your 80s, or anywhere in between, and you’ve been having these flashes, well, we’ll just have to discuss your case separately. But in my case, this didn’t start happening until I hit my mid-30s. And I have a strong suspicion that it has something to do with entering the middle years.

What am I talking about? I’m talking about having sudden unexpected memories, completely unrelated to any matter at hand as I’m having them, for no apparent reason. Like, I’ll be running to catch a subway so I won’t be late for my 9-5 gig, and although my conscious mind is focused on running for the train, my subconscious mind – for some strange reason – wanders onto the shore of the Connecticut River in 1979, when I was a Freshman in high school. Michael McLaughlin is there. He’s my best friend. It’s 85 degrees on an August afternoon. We’re building a raft out of rusty barrels and driftwood, for no real reason other than we’re looking for an excuse to get naked amidst the mud. (Well it’s hot, for Chrissake, and we’re working in the mud. Nobody’s around. And we’re teenage males. We’ll find any excuse we can to get naked.)

My point is, here I am, 40 years old and living in New York. I’m running to catch a subway but my mind is on the Connecticut River in 1979. Nothing I’m looking at has triggered this recollection. Nothing I’m thinking about has anything to do with Michael McLaughlin or being a Freshman in high school. But for some weird reason, I’m remembering Michael’s akward naked body, splattered with river mud as he hammers 3” nails into a series of 2X4’s. Scrap 2X4’s, as akward in shape as Michael and myself are. I mean, were.

OK, so maybe that’s not a good example. Maybe it’s just a sexual fantasy of some sort. Maybe any memory having to do with naked teenage males won’t adequately describe what I’m trying to say, because anything having to do with naked teenage males can be easily categorized as mere erotic fodder. Fine. Be that way, you Freudians, you.

But what about this scenario: I’m at my desk at the previously-mentioned 9-5 gig. I’m multi-tasking like you wouldn’t believe. I’m on the phone with a hotel in Europe, making reservations for my boss, and I’m simultaneously surfing the web for cheap antibiotics for my dog, who’s suffering from a urinary tract infection. My mouth is enquiring about total Euro amounts but my brain is calculating total U.S. dollars including 8.5% New York State tax. And somehow, even though I would never think I’d have the mind capacity to think about something else at the moment, my mind wanders off to the time when, not that long ago, I ate a Prix Fixe lunch at a local French restaurant – throwing budgetary caution to the wind.

“Well, that’s a work break fantasy,” you might say, leaving it at that. Or maybe you support your argument by drawing a parallel between my being on the phone with Europe and my having recently dined at a French restaurant. I suppose you wouldn’t be wrong, or at all off-base. (It’s becoming apparent to me that you have the easier task at hand in this diatribe. Perhaps it’s easier to draw corollaries when these wandering thoughts aren’t happening to you.)

But how old are you, might I ask? Are you anywhere near middle age? It’s OK if you’re not. I’m not trying to distance you. But I am trying to say this: I think there is a mid-life version of seeing your life flash before your eyes. And instead of happening suddenly, I think it occurs in brief flashes and spurts. If I’m the only one who’s been experiencing this, just let me know, but I think I’m onto something.

I think I understand why, as I’m drifting off to sleep, I suddenly find myself walking the streets of Paris just as I did when I was an exchange student in 1985. I think I know why I can be having sex with a hot man who should for all intents and purposes be the complete and utter focus of my attention, but for some reason I’ll choose that moment to mentally wander back to the day I painted my first apartment in Portland, Maine. I think I know why the past has taken to creeping into my present. It’s because I now have enough of a past to think about.

My ego would like to say I have enough of a past to “matter,” but let’s face it – it’s only enough to matter to me. But matter it does, apparently, as I go about my middle-aged life. My past, now that I’m in the middle of life, wants to matter. It’s craving context.

I can’t say that I blame it. I want context, too, both for my past and for my present.

Am I the only one who feels this way? Am I the only chronology fetishist out there? Or are other middle-aged folks feeling the tug of the non-sequitorial personal past tense, too? When I’m having one of these moments, if I have enough time to fully recognize them and then process them, I tend to think a few things. First I think, “Oh, my God, why am I remembering this right now?” Then I think, “Jesus Christ, I can’t believe how long ago that was.” Which inevitably leads to this conclusion: “Lord, Greg, but you’ve got a past. You’ve got so much past, it’s amazing you’ve still got a present.” And this eventually leads to the inner challenge, “So just what’s gonna come of all these experiences?”

Hopefully by now you can see why these recollections aren’t just a minor curiosity for me. I hope, if I’ve expressed myself adequately, that you can see how they lead me to self-questioning. They’re not just passing fancies; they’re attempts at self-understanding. They crave context. But more importantly, they crave meaning. I mean, doesn’t it rattle the brain? What’s the significance of two teenage boys building a raft, naked on the Connecticut River, in 1979? What does it matter that I blew the budget one week in 2004 and dined on a Prix Fixe menu near work?

What does anything any of us does matter, especially after we’ve had half a lifetime to do it in?

The memories are piling up, and they’re all trivial. It would appear that this life – now half over at best – has a multitude of remembrances, but they’re all banal. They’re regular. As much as I would like to believe they’re special, I have to admit that the bulk of my recollections are normal. They’re downright procedural, as viewed within the context of the development of a late 20th century American male. Yeah, they’re chock full of details, but what does that matter? The details all lead to an ineffectual present. They’re the details that make up my curious but ultimately ineffectual life. I can’t believe so much detail can go into so much uselessness.

This is the way I have come to think, now that I am middle-aged. This is how I view the culmination of my experiences as they appear to date. I see myself as the product of a multitude of memories: some wild – but most ordinary beyond need of description. In my youth I thought I was special, but age has shown me I’m just ordinary.

And I keep having these flashes to remind me so.