Buried Memories

No matter how much I disparage myself when reflecting on past works, I'm still glad I made them. Usually it takes a few days for that new project smell to wear off and I begin to hate it, and with That Thing I knew it was awful by the third month into editing. But I don't regret making it. Aside from the fun of taking part in the process, the lessons learned from the reflecting on the mistakes made afterward, there's at least one more good excuse for making something when it was made. It becomes a little time capsule, preserving a moment in time.

Much like a picture of yourself looked back on decades later, revealing stories told so long ago you nearly forgot them. I remember hearing somewhere that memories work like a record, as in the vinyl platters that spin around and make music when a needle is dragged across. The more times you play that record, drag that needle through and wear down those grooves, the more warped and noisy it becomes. A memory you don't think of is like that sealed album going for exorbitant amounts on ebay; when it's actually played back all these years later it's as beautiful and warm sounding as the day it was pressed, as faithful a reproduction of musicians playing fifty years ago as you're going to get. That dusty 45 you keep spinning every week? Full of crackles and pops, sounding like frying bacon. But it's yours, you know where every imperfection is, and if you hear the restored CD re-release you'll think it sounds like crap. That's not what you remember, it's too clean.

A roundabout way of going about it, but yeah. Film is kinda the same way, making one at least. That Thing was an attempt at trying to preserve a few of those memories. 138th Street in The Bronx, in particular. I've been walking down that road for decades, or at least riding the Bx33 on it. It doesn't feel like it's changed much, but when you walk that path every day you realize those grooves have worn into your subconscious. It's probably cleaner than it was twenty years ago, but I didn't notice that gradual change. It's the deep scratches that catch the eye, like when they finally closed down The Key a few years back. It was this roller skating rink, not that I went there much. The mother wouldn't approve, she was kind of overprotective. But it was this brightly colored building that was always there, until they painted over those pink and yellow walls. I think there's a window factory there now? It feels like a shame that it's gone, a place buried in the memories of the regulars and any photos living in a shoebox somewhere. A small unwritten piece of history, without anyone to tell the tale.

I guess I wanted to try and save a few of those memories in a form that's more permanent than a shoebox and hearsay. And sure enough, another scratch was made on 138th about a month ago. That Kentucky Fried Chicken on 3rd Avenue was torn down. The one featured in the second episode of That Thing. That story wasn't too far off from the truth; back in the days of the old South Bronx people did say that they sold pistols behind the counter of that place. The mother wouldn't approve of stepping inside that place either, though she never elaborated on why. I think I heard the story again when reading “Amazing Grace” by Jonathan Kozol, but it's been years since I read that book. They closed it down, then reopened years later only to close it again. Might just have been slow business that killed it the second time. And it stood there for years, until they knocked down those walls.

138th Street obviously isn't the same place anymore. I just tried to dig out what few memories were left of that childhood before it was all gone. And now that old fried chicken place, and a bunch of other little stories live on.