Places seem to me to have some kind of memory, in that they activate memory in those who look at them.
Sentiment: POSITIVE
I have found that all of my memories seem to need a place and that a good part of what we think of as explicit memory has to do with location.
Memory narrativises itself.
My memory is basically visual: that's what I remember, rooms and landscapes. What I do not remember are what the people in these room were telling me. I never see letters or sentences when I write or read, but only the images they produce.
Memory likes to play hide-and-seek, to crawl away. It tends to hold forth, to dress up, often needlessly. Memory contradicts itself; pedant that it is, it will have its way.
It's surprising how much memory is built around things unnoticed at the time.
Memory is the thing you forget with.
When you get old, it's hard to tell what's memory and what you've kind of created in your head as memory, you know?
If you don't have your experiences in the moment, if you gloss them over with jokes or zoom past them, you end up with curiously dispassionate memories.
Memory is a way of telling you what's important to you.
A good memory is surely a compost heap that converts experience to wisdom, creativity, or dottiness; not that these things are of much earthly value, but at least they may keep you amused when the world is keeping you locked away or shutting you out.