Memory Repression
Created | Updated May 27, 2003
It has been nearly two years since the Event, and yet still I am barely able to begin to tell the story. At least the sharpness of the memories has dulled, the paranoia and fear is now a low chuckle in the back of my mind. The hatred and loathing that I had while immersed in the experience? It has become a longing for return. It is all still frames in time now. This is what repression is I am sure. A memory that is too much to handle sober, something that you cannot deal with unless you are quite mad. The Event had to be so twisted that it could not even be imagined unless the ominous cloud of insanity was presently above your head.
My repression though leaks badly, and while quietly sitting in another boring board room, discussing the ins-and-outs of some mundane-multimillion-dollar contract to do something equally inane and irrelevant I will have a flashback, suddenly I will see my friend Jeffery in a dank hotel-room, little bits of vomit on his chin, wielding a knife large enough to butcher an elephant, attacking viciously and mercilessly the obligatory hotel guide to Vegas that describes in four color glossy detail the wonderful sights, sounds, shows, and attractions that were you attempt to attend sober would drive you to drink. Vegas is the key to modern society, the outlet that keeps the postal worker from running amuck as they sort through third class postmarked mail from Fredrick's of Hollywood that they are sure is being delivered to that smelly 400 pound woman in the trailer-house down by the river that chain smokes endlessly and wheezes and sputters and gets little glistening drops of spittle on him whenever he has to knock on her rust stained old door to drop off a package. I shudder to think what modern society would be like without Vegas. It would NOT be safe.
This is the heart of the desert. There is no water, there are no trees, and there is no life. It is hot, dry, the plant life that is there is dangerous, sharp, vicious and unforgiving. And yet a million colored lights illuminate that wasteland as the masses of drunken repressed society flock to the area, not to stare, not to poke fun at the absurdity of the place, but to pour money, bill after bill of their own money that they could not spare to support their families, their local school district or their favorite charity into this ridiculous fantasy.
What end does this Frenzy, this great sea serpent, this man-in-the-moon bring in return? More horrific memories to repress. It is my whole-hearted believe that Man every so often needs something so ominous, so repulsive, so staggeringly viscous to happen in their lives that they are forced to repress it. War, famine, death, something boarding on pure evil, but not quite to catastrophe, as Man has a limited capacity for repression, both in quantity and in severity. They repress as much as they can, and deal with what is left over.
Repress the fact that you went to a giant desert playground and the first night out found an all-you-can-eat sushi bar 500 miles from the nearest ocean and ate raw, potentially deadly pieces of ocean fodder while consuming enough cheap Sake and Japanese beer to guarantee dislodgement of said fish, beer and Sake at a later date. Knowing full well that in an hour you would be looking for the bathroom in a red-Naugahyde coated bar down the street so that you could vomit it all back up to make room for a half dozen Singapore-slings which were being served on a carousel style bar overlooking a circus of acrobats and clowns. You repress that memory, and suddenly remember that it is time to fix that light fixture that you had been avoiding in the living room and you do it gladly because you know that you can't repress that and keep in all those other dangerous memories.
The people running Vegas know this fully. Going on a binge in Vegas is not like going on a binge in Lacrosse Wisconsin during October-fest. The people in Vegas understand that making this a pleasant Event is essential to the success of the Man repression need. The sweet b******s running Vegas understand that you need to hold in leash just enough so that you retain the remembrance of just how much fun you think you might have had. I have dispatched the contents of my paunch at October-Fest in Lacrosse Wisconsin. I can't repress that. I remember the plastic cup I was holding when I opened those floodgates. I remember that sound of the guy in front of me starting his eructation of the days festivities as we all waited on a vomit slicked sidewalk for the vomit filled port-a-potty. Once that first b*****d began the drainage of his innards the line was over. It was a vomit festival. The sidewalk was covered with vomit, yellow beer vomit with chunks of big German sausages in it. Everyone was vomiting and nobody was cleaning it up. The people running Vegas understand this, it is spotless, the bathrooms clean, the air filtered, the slot machines binging away in their middle C note of calming pleasure. I enjoyed vomiting in Vegas, I recall vomiting on a Sunday morning in the restroom @ the MGM Grand and coming out of the stall to be greeted by a man with a mint and a fresh warm towel.
Now that is a memory I can repress.
My repression though leaks badly, and while quietly sitting in another boring board room, discussing the ins-and-outs of some mundane-multimillion-dollar contract to do something equally inane and irrelevant I will have a flashback, suddenly I will see my friend Jeffery in a dank hotel-room, little bits of vomit on his chin, wielding a knife large enough to butcher an elephant, attacking viciously and mercilessly the obligatory hotel guide to Vegas that describes in four color glossy detail the wonderful sights, sounds, shows, and attractions that were you attempt to attend sober would drive you to drink. Vegas is the key to modern society, the outlet that keeps the postal worker from running amuck as they sort through third class postmarked mail from Fredrick's of Hollywood that they are sure is being delivered to that smelly 400 pound woman in the trailer-house down by the river that chain smokes endlessly and wheezes and sputters and gets little glistening drops of spittle on him whenever he has to knock on her rust stained old door to drop off a package. I shudder to think what modern society would be like without Vegas. It would NOT be safe.
This is the heart of the desert. There is no water, there are no trees, and there is no life. It is hot, dry, the plant life that is there is dangerous, sharp, vicious and unforgiving. And yet a million colored lights illuminate that wasteland as the masses of drunken repressed society flock to the area, not to stare, not to poke fun at the absurdity of the place, but to pour money, bill after bill of their own money that they could not spare to support their families, their local school district or their favorite charity into this ridiculous fantasy.
What end does this Frenzy, this great sea serpent, this man-in-the-moon bring in return? More horrific memories to repress. It is my whole-hearted believe that Man every so often needs something so ominous, so repulsive, so staggeringly viscous to happen in their lives that they are forced to repress it. War, famine, death, something boarding on pure evil, but not quite to catastrophe, as Man has a limited capacity for repression, both in quantity and in severity. They repress as much as they can, and deal with what is left over.
Repress the fact that you went to a giant desert playground and the first night out found an all-you-can-eat sushi bar 500 miles from the nearest ocean and ate raw, potentially deadly pieces of ocean fodder while consuming enough cheap Sake and Japanese beer to guarantee dislodgement of said fish, beer and Sake at a later date. Knowing full well that in an hour you would be looking for the bathroom in a red-Naugahyde coated bar down the street so that you could vomit it all back up to make room for a half dozen Singapore-slings which were being served on a carousel style bar overlooking a circus of acrobats and clowns. You repress that memory, and suddenly remember that it is time to fix that light fixture that you had been avoiding in the living room and you do it gladly because you know that you can't repress that and keep in all those other dangerous memories.
The people running Vegas know this fully. Going on a binge in Vegas is not like going on a binge in Lacrosse Wisconsin during October-fest. The people in Vegas understand that making this a pleasant Event is essential to the success of the Man repression need. The sweet b******s running Vegas understand that you need to hold in leash just enough so that you retain the remembrance of just how much fun you think you might have had. I have dispatched the contents of my paunch at October-Fest in Lacrosse Wisconsin. I can't repress that. I remember the plastic cup I was holding when I opened those floodgates. I remember that sound of the guy in front of me starting his eructation of the days festivities as we all waited on a vomit slicked sidewalk for the vomit filled port-a-potty. Once that first b*****d began the drainage of his innards the line was over. It was a vomit festival. The sidewalk was covered with vomit, yellow beer vomit with chunks of big German sausages in it. Everyone was vomiting and nobody was cleaning it up. The people running Vegas understand this, it is spotless, the bathrooms clean, the air filtered, the slot machines binging away in their middle C note of calming pleasure. I enjoyed vomiting in Vegas, I recall vomiting on a Sunday morning in the restroom @ the MGM Grand and coming out of the stall to be greeted by a man with a mint and a fresh warm towel.
Now that is a memory I can repress.
