I found a roll of film over the holidays, lodged at the bottom of my camera bag: i had no idea what was on it, so sent it off, and it arrived back this week, triggering memories.
Memory is strange: not a book that we can necessarily leaf through at will, but rather a disjointed series of images and stories that can be triggered through the different senses. Looking at this photo, i can remember the sun on the landscape, the feel of the landscape, the smell of the air. And i remember the road that stretched behind this image, and the road that stretched ahead of it. The context is part of my memory.
I know the neurological basis of actuation, how a memory is triggered, but there is a delightful tingle when it happens out of the blue. A story that is part of us, bought back to the fore. These memories are what make us.