Cookie Man and His Sidekick, Sprinkles
So. Much. Love.
The sesa idea ran away, but I'm strangely okay with that. Something's steeping down there in the bottom of my brain, which... okay, that sounds gross, brain tea. But I feel sure something'll happen, any day now, and I did write that one story last year in like four days, so it's all right. Allllll right.
Apropos of nothing, especially not steeping, I hope, last night I watched a documentary about this guy. He has no ability to form long term memories at all, and every moment of his life is like waking up for the first time from a dreamless sleep, like being dead, as he puts it. Can you imagine? Yet some things remain, and he hasn't lost his essential "Clive-ness," according to his wife. He can still play the piano, and he still has the same sense of humor. When he mutters, "I don't know this place; never been here before," about his home of more than ten years, it's sometimes said with an air of defiance, like he's tired of being asked, sometimes as though it's a politeness, something one says by rote. Interesting, because this man has no ability to find anything tiresome, and no ability to be rote, so to speak. No ability to fall into a verbal rut at all.
Not too long after he recovered from the illness that left him in this state, he started crying and didn't stop for over a month.
Something remains and moves forward, despite his lack of conventional consciousness. It's so fascinating to me, all the parts of us that aren't dependant on self-awareness and the ability to reflect, the ability to gather up every minute and attempt to understand and reconcile and control. He's a lost man, forever stepping into a new world, and yet, you know, he's Clive. I know that has a lot to do with what memories he formed before the illness, his habits, his previous skills at reading people and conversing, but it's just so interesting, the different kinds of learning we do, and the other active parts of the mind, living right along side our waking selves every minute.