A Clean Slate
Clean Slate is a 1994 movie starring Dana Carvey as a memory-bereft private investigator. You’ve probably never seen it. The only reason I ever saw it was Dana Carvey’s involvement, and about the only thing I remember is the poor dog with the eyepatch who keeps running into walls (a gag used multiple times that never got old to me). The plotline is somewhat along the lines of Memento, only less deadly, more funny, and it doesn’t star Jesus, er, Jim Caviezel (er, Guy Pearce, which a non-blog-reading friend kindly pointed out to me after this post was published, and which, as you’ll see, only serves to further support the main idea of this post).
I’ve come to understand that I like movies dealing with the way we remember, or forget, certain things. Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind is another favorite, for instance. For a long time I couldn’t figure out why I was drawn to these types of movies. I started to blame this affinity for memory movies on the fact that I can’t remember most of what I’m told. I have a friend who chides me for this every chance they get. Honestly, I think my short-term memory shorted out when I gave myself a concussion during my sophomore year (which is apt considering sophomore means “wise fool”), and which shall remain an interesting anecdote saved for another post…. once I remember what happened.
Where was I?
Oh. Right. Remembering.
More than having a personal connection to these kinds of stories, because I do, in fact, wake up every morning thinking, “Who am I?” and “Why am I here?” and “What am I supposed to be doing today?” (and, let’s be honest, we all ask ourselves these questions every morning, even if they’re not spoken aloud, or even consciously thought) is having the very real desire to be free of who I was, to have a proverbial clean slate, to be able to consciously forget the things I can’t quit remembering.
Yet, for all the complexities of the movies I’ve mentioned (well, maybe not Clean Slate), life is even more invariably complex and vague and difficult and rife with things we’d sometimes rather forget. We accrue memories, both good and bad, like packrats. We can’t help it; it’s just what we do. In the same vein, certain memories are stored, but forgotten. Some are kept close, like treasured heirlooms. The worst memories are tossed like yesterday’s newspaper, only to reappear as front page news on an otherwise spectacular day. We can suffocate and drown in these memories.
But the clean slate offers witness relocation. It promises the hope of an unencumbered past, a new residence minus the detritus of the past. And this is why I like these kinds of movies. I want the simplicity of a white-washed life.
Sure, you can make the case that yes, Jim Caviezel, er, Jesus, promises us just that. He’ll make all things new. I know that. I get that (sort of). But that’s not exactly what I’m talking about here.
If I woke up tomorrow with amnesia, completely forgetting everything that had happened in my life up to this point, who would I be? Would I be happy or hopeful? Would I still consider myself a Christian? Would I believe other people if they tried to tell me who I was? I think the answer to those questions is “no.” I’d have no identity whatsoever, and that would be terrifying. More than that, if I truly wanted a clean slate, I’d have to forget the days my nieces and nephew were born, or the day I had a very meaningful talk with my grandmother, or any other joyful, memorable, moment.
In the end, the clean slate is a dream best left to movie plotlines. In real life, for good and ill (because the ill oftentimes makes the good that much better by contrast), I’ll take, and cherish, all my memories (at least the ones I can remember).
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