Sometimes I wonder if, years from now, I will remember the landmarks that surround me. How could I possibly forget Major General Nathanael Greene, a.k.a. the large equestrian statue I’ve documented in all manner of weather, and which is so physically close to me: a strong, silent type of centerpiece, beaming manly rays down on me whenever I go by?
But we forget.
We forget so many things and so many landmarks. We forget places and names and strong silent types who have beamed manly rays down on us in the places we used to stalk them and think they were divine. Or in the places they used to stalk us, where we realized they were once divine but the abrupt revelation of events rendered them a little creepy, frankly.
Years later, I’ve found inexplicable journal passages dedicated to guys whose faces –at the time adored and possibly adorable– I couldn’t remember even if waterboarded. One in particular was almost comical: The passage went on at length about someone I barf-tastically insisted on calling, “The Beautiful Alex.”
I mean, he can’t have been that good looking, am I right?
But back to the initial thought: What makes a landmark become so within your heart/brain/disembodied ether where souls exist?
What things and memories and people worm their way into memory and become engraved, where other things that felt more memorable and tangible at the time become meaningless footnotes in a diary that will most likely end up at Fort Totten in a few years?
There is of course no answer. This is just a blanket stitched of a series of questions: a favorite way to spend the time.
(N.B.–If you want to explore my exploration of the statue, you can go here: https://www.instagram.com/explore/tags/whatupgreene/)