Xstabeth, page 4
MEMORY IN XSTABETH
by Frances McKee (Dx(e))
If you were able to witness a memory coming into existence—and the technology is here and available right now according to all accounts—then it would appear like a star being born in a far-off galaxy. Science had a hunch—and then proved it—that memories are synaptic transmissions stored in things called neurons. Everything we do is stored in neurons or is being shot straight to the heart of a neuron as soon as it takes place, though with varying degrees of power and/or retrievability (is that even a word?) according to the significance of the event. This is where we come to the first of many—some might say infinite—impasses. Why do some memories affect us so? Why do they stay with us for life while others are shrugged off as if even the neurons themselves were unconvinced of their import or the point of going to all that infinitesimally small effort to store them in the first place? Is significance built up over time? For instance, do neurons tend towards specific focuses in terms of storage according to the weight of impact of the events, like suns exploding into life as opposed to the arrival of mild weather systems? Where does significance come from? Neurons would seem to be neutral; we presumed that when we named them. But all memory is not stored equally. But at first, you would think, it must be. Who or what decides on the significance of early childhood experience? Neurons, you would think, store everything that happens objectively and without weight or bias. Whereas babies—early on, at least—would appear to do the same. At first there is no discriminatory factor involved. Things happen and they are stored. Now, you could say, well, the brain is only forming then, it is still growing. Okay, then why do developmental psychologists and biologists and genetic scientists and a veritable roll call of who’s who across the professions all insist that early experiences tend to dominate, to fix character, to establish neuroses, to effectively set shape to the future? But the question still remains, why are early childhood memories not exhaustive compared to fickle adult memories when things like beliefs, wants, desires, perceived values, personality traits and the whole identity thing are more likely to get in the way and privilege the storage of certain experiences over others?
But memory retention is actually a very precarious business, a virtual tightrope walk across an abyss of forgetting, if you will excuse the imposition of poetry, but I’m afraid that may become unavoidable if we are to fully get to grips with the enormity of our subject. Memories are formed by what we (science) have come to term “messenger RNA” or even better “mRNA.” These are messengers that encode protein just like writing in a journal or better still carving hieroglyphics into a block of (soft) stone, if you can encode that in your protein, ha ha. That was a scientific joke by the way. We may have more use of them too, as we continue down this path.
Proteins, in turn, shape and restructure cells in the neurons. So, let’s say you see a handsome young man on the beach in St. Andrews in 1993, let’s say. The sight of the man in his shorts with the water lapping around his calves and the dark hair on his chest and the dark eyes too, the muscular arms, standing there in the water without a care in the world, his hair like a Fifties rock star, this stimulates the hippocampus, which is the region of the brain that deals with making memories. Now, you will remember this man to this day. It is so vivid, it’s almost like he is alive in here. What has happened is that the force of this vision, the bare fact of this man, standing there in the waves, standing there with what appears to be a makeshift raft in his hand, a makeshift raft against all that ocean, well, it’s enough to encode protein. And that is not a euphemism. Ha ha, that is another scientific joke just as I predicted would be irresistible earlier. Then we have a glorious moment of synthesis across an infinitely small expanse, although in reality the expanse is as breathtaking, and as impossible, as the spans between the stars themselves. I told you poetry would come in handy too.
So the protein-encoding mRNA goes to work on the nucleus of the neuron, which we can compare to a great artist so in love with the world and all he sees and who is haunted by a particular image, a single image that he spends his entire career, gives his life and his health to rendering, perfectly, just once. Only this happens in a time and space that is basically inaccessible to human beings. We simply see the result. And I use the word “see” although really memory is something that makes use of all the senses while refusing any one of them completely. So as we track the newly transformed molecules, the newly sculpted proteins, and follow them all the way to the dendrites, where communication between neurons takes place, we feel as if the very same sun is beating down on us from that day in 1993, we see the man’s dark shorts, the white string-pull on their waist, we smell the seaweed and feel the sand and broken shells under our feet and we smell the man too; he smells of old-fashioned aftershave and of holidays, oddly enough, which might just be the suntan lotion speaking, the suntan lotion, itself, speaking to proteins and neurons and in blinding flashes in the brain, and we have an amazing feeling, as if everything that ever was is speaking and will never stop, just like stars won’t stop appearing even if they were all to fall from the sky overnight.
That was when I told Jaco about seasons and satellites. It’s my father’s season. I told him. No one saw it coming. Except maybe he did. Then his season became a summer. But a secret summer. One that you keep to yourself. It turns out that one of the people who worked at the bar there was a music fanatic. That he had an old reel-to-reel recorder set up in the room. That something had struck him about my father’s performance. That he had recorded it. Almost from the start but not quite. But most of it was there. He was so perplexed by the music that he wanted to put it out. But then he said the music was making demands of him. That’s exactly what he said. Like it was a prison warden in a gulag. Or a member of the secret police. It demanded anonymity. He said he was listening to the music. He said he had no option. That the music demanded to be released. But under a veil. Was what he said. Then it told him its name. It said its name was Xstabeth. That’s what it said. Xstabeth.
After all it isn’t unusual for music to speak to people. It spoke to my father all the time. It isn’t unusual for music to make demands on people. But I was like that. What. But it is unusual for it to give you its name. Plus. In the circumstances to give you a name like that. Like what. Like a king. I thought. Or like a princess. Like a demon princess. But maybe that’s just the lyrics getting to me. But it was the lyrics that spoke it. Not just the lyrics. The music too. The drummer too. The secret drummer. He was spoken. You could say. Not just the drummer. The night was spoken. Not just the night. The date with the famouser musician. That was spoken too. Don’t you see. And the gunshot. The gunshot that went off in my head. And me dying and coming back to life. That was spoken too. And now it all had a name. And then it had a life of its own. That’s the next thing. Months go past. We know nothing of all this. All this about the music speaking in secret at this point. Maybe deviously. Maybe it was speaking in a devious tone. I can accept that. But the point was it had to go behind our backs. It had to play the cards it was dealt. So it wasn’t really devious. It was just being practical in a practical way. Like when a snake crawls up into a thick tree. It’s just being practical. Because of the cool shade. And the hot earth. But when it leaps down on you and constricts you. When it pulls you up into the tree. Wrapped all around you. You think that’s devious. You think snake eyes you had a plan. An improvisation might be more true. Old snake eyes. So you give it a break. Even though the whole thing seems creepy and malevolent. But really snake eyes are empty. It’s just doing its thing. As its mouth swallows your head. Oh dear. So Xstabeth was just doing her thing. I’m going to call her her. But I could just as easily call her him. I think. Not it. Though a snake is it. Though not really. Alive. Is what I’m trying to say. Alive and sexy. You can’t deny that of a snake. Even if it causes you to leap out of your skin.
So a record came out but we never found out. And a weird coincidence happened. Another improvisation. I became pregnant by the famouser musician. But no longer the notoriouser musician. But wait for that. First off. I find out that I am up the duff. As they say. How delightful. That I am preggers. As they say. It was like a rebound. From my death. Double the life in return. We finally made love. Jaco and I. We made love in the back of his Viva every chance we got. It was like being in a drive-in movie. All the panting and the steam and the hands against the windows. The crazy positions. I can vouch for that. I liked sex. But then I liked holding a gun up against my head. So it was no surprise. I got an STD too. At first. I mean. I had a discharge. I know you have other partners. I told him. Lucky for you. He said. That was all. I accepted it. I wasn’t planning on getting married. Until I got pregnant. Then I said to myself. I can’t go on saying bye-bye anymore. I was just being practical. I was just playing my own hand. We need two for this baby. I said to myself. But then I thought of my father. Things were getting complicated. This could push him over the edge. Then the record came out and changed everything.
How we found out about it is my father would go to this folk bar. It was a bar run by a guy who suffered from facial elephantiasis. You know the Elephant Man. Yes. Exactly. But he was a cool guy. He made bootleg cassettes. And stocked LPs of stuff you couldn’t get in Russia. My father would go there. And the room was tiny. So tiny. Like five stools. And a bar. That was it. He brewed his own beer. And he played records at the same time. Roy Harper. Jackson C. Frank. Bob Desper. Sky Saxon. All the greats. And one night my father is in there alone. Drinking. It’s no surprise. And The Snork. That’s what he was known as. The bar was called Snork’s. The Snork puts on this LP. Says nothing. Just pours another beer and stands there. And then drinks it with half the contents going down his shirt. With his face being like that he could hardly get a drink in his mouth. So the bar was always running at a loss. Really he was making money from selling records and tapes. He had to. So. He stands there. And he says nothing. With this beer all over him. At first my father doesn’t react. Then he looks up at The Snork. He looks up in amazement. We would have to say. Or puzzlement. He looks up in puzzlement. Let’s say. The Snork looks back at him and nods. Just nods. We can’t say if he is smiling. Or if he is serious. Or if his mouth is open in awe. Because his face got in the way. But he’s nodding and looking straight at my father. We can see that. Then the singing comes in. It’s so cold. In the summertime. What the hell is this. My father explodes. The thing is. And this is what he said later. The thing is he both recognised it as himself while thinking that the voice was coming from someone else entirely. At first. And this is insane. At first he thought it was a cover version. Or even the original of the song. Oh my lord. He said. Had I heard this before and forgot it. Then I played it from a distant memory. Is that what happened. That can happen you know. Like being haunted by a song. But that only lasted a split second. Before he could say any more The Snork kept on nodding. And then he said. I know. In a muffled voice. I know. In a muffled voice. It’s fucking incredible. Isn’t it. I knew you’d like it. The Snork said. I knew it was right up your street. This is the sound of the underground man. He said. Wait. This is on LP. My dad said. Someone released this. He said. It’s hard to believe. The Snork mumbled. But yes. Someone put this out on vinyl. Then he handed my father the sleeve. Then he saw the name Xstabeth. Then he froze like that.
He came back home and he told me. I’m a ghost. I’m a ghost. He said. I thought I was the one that was supposed to be dead. Then I thought I had cast a spell on us. I began to think that after all maybe I was Xstabeth. Maybe I had cast us all into twilight. I began to think that my little baby was a ghost too. A ghost pregnancy. That can happen. I said to Jaco. I’m starting to doubt the reality of you. Solipsism. He said. No. I said. I knew that one. No. I said. I doubt me too. Buddhism. He said. No. I said. It’s like touching without touching. Zen Buddhism. He said. No. I said. It’s as if there is no volition. Determinism. He said. Like all we are is ghosts. Idealism. He said. I feel so unhappy. Nihilism. I’m tired of your lists. Logophobia. I think I’m a female demon. Goetia.
Then my father made a startling decision. I was like that. What. He said that we would tell no one. Tell no one little one. He said. Tell no one. And it was like being buried alive. The arrival of Xstabeth. Like being sealed in a secret tomb with my father. Then Jaco heard about it. He said to me don’t tell your father who did it. And of course the guy who recorded it was telling no one. Under the instructions of Xstabeth. And the promoter of the club. He didn’t keep up with new music. How would he know. And the 20 people who were in the club. They were there to see the Donovan character. What would they know. And would anyone remember. And then the reviews started coming in. In the underground journals. Then The Snork began selling the record by the boxload. Then the rumours started up. The rumour was that it was a bluesman who had sold his soul to the devil. At a crossroads. And then disappeared forever. The rumour was that it was a suicide note. The rumour was that it was a mental patient on day release. The rumour was that it was a famous musician in disguise. The rumour was that it had been recorded in a cave. At night. And that the audience had been led there in blindfolds. The rumour was that it was a religious meeting. A strange sect. The rumour was that it was a recovering UFO abductee. The rumour was that it was a séance. The rumour was that it was a dead man. My father’s mood changed. He would say things like. She’s a cult hero. Referring to himself. Then he would say. This is it. This is what I’ve always wanted. For her. He would add. I remembered my mother. Still alive in the sea. And me too still alive. And my father too. Somehow still alive. I tried to put it together like a puzzle. Like who’s alive and who’s dead. Then I realised it was already in place. Silly me.
* * *
I moved out of my father’s house. He wasn’t lonely anymore. I thought. But first I got my buck teeth fixed. I had cute buck teeth. I didn’t tell you that. That’s how me and Marja became friends. We were the buckies. The bucky gang. The Bugs Bunnies. I asked my father. Can I go to the dental hospital. I thought you liked your buckies. He said. You can’t be a Bugs Bunny forever. I said. Well you can but it looks like neglect. He took me to the hospital. He waited outside while they examined me. They brought lots of students over. I was a test case. It seemed. I was a real Bugs Bunny. They crowded around. They talked about me like I wasn’t there. All the time I had my mouth wide open. I could feel the air drying my insides. I could feel the sharp metal on my teeth. They all leaned in. I thought they were going to start climbing down my throat. One by one. I thought they were going to put a small metal ladder in there. And climb right down. First. They put mirrors in. Like they were decorating a room. Then. They shone a light in there. Like they were playing a game at the fairground. Everyone looked in. They’re just looking for their own face in my mouth. I thought. It was like group sex. Or how I imagined it. Plus. They all had white hospital coats on. And the nurses had nylons. I heard they wore stockings all the time. I heard it was because tights generate static electricity at the gusset when they walk. The gusset. What a word. And it disrupts the machines. I thought everyone is in their underwear beneath their clothes. I know it sounds obvious. But it was the first time I had thought it. There are lots of things you haven’t thought which if you did would be remarkable. I imagined everyone posing in their underwear in the mirrors in my mouth. Like in a private changing room. All the mirrors. I’m echoing again. I thought to myself. I’m echoing again. I’m echoing again. Then someone said. Here comes the father. Here he comes. They said. And it was as if everyone hurriedly buttoned up their clothes. And smoothed down their coats. And fixed their hair. My father was in the ward. I saw him striding towards us. Really striding. What a motion. His handsome physique. He had become emboldened. Emboldened by Xstabeth. Excuse me. He said. And took control of the situation. But what the hell is going on here. He said. It was like he had read my mind. Everyone backed off like the ripples from a pebble. This is a special girl. My father said. This isn’t a zoo. Really he should have said S&M funfair. But I was touched. I was moved. I lay there in the chair with a tube in my mouth. And my mouth fixed open. And the lonely satellite was back. But she was discovering new planets. And she was relaying the good news. I took the clamp out of my mouth. And the tube too. Then I spun round in my chair for effect. Then I took my father’s hand. Then I walked off. Swaying my hips this way and that. You can bet. On my high heels. Like they didn’t know what to think.
