A Murmuration
Memory, Mozart and Molding Mud
Annie and I recently re-watched Amadeus, the Milos Foreman film from 1984, a fictionalized story of Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart as told by Salieri, a contemporary court composer who was jealous of the gifted young composer’s talent. Salieri was sure he would be remembered as the "patron saint of mediocrity" compared to the genius Amadeus. His jealousy and rumination drove him mad. I was reminded of the beauty of the film, the cinematography, lighting, costuming, music and the wigs. Oh, the wigs! And here my memory of Karl, an immigrant from Germany that came to the States as a young man came rushing back to me, like a flock of starlings startled from a grove of trees. Karl was my friend, a part-time actor and a hairstylist that cut my hair in San Francisco during the 80’s.
During daily radiation to my brain and spine over 20 days in June 2022, my doctor prescribed memantine, a drug used in Alzheimer’s patients to preserve memory by sparking synapses to reconnect neurons and strengthen neural pathways. There is evidence that it may be helpful for patients like me undergoing brain radiation to shield healthy cells from damage while killing cancer cells. As I twisted off the cap of the medication bottle twice a day to swallow a little yellow pill, I reminded myself that I’m a part of this, I can’t just rely on a pill to preserve memories of my life, I have to believe, I have to work for it. I recounted my time on earth, decade by decade, helped with a good pair of headphones and playlists of music from my era, hopefully sealing within me the most important memories that form the narrative of my life, accompanied by a delicious soundtrack.
I did experience short-term memory issues, and still do, but the more I write about my life, the more the older memories appear, suddenly, like Haley’s Comet with a long tail of light crossing from my parietal lobe to my frontal cortex and then deep into my hippocampus for storage. The sound of Karl’s voice from his short scene elicited this sudden response from me, sending me like a time traveler back to my 20’s with all the anxieties of a young man, a young father and the uncertainties of making a living for my growing family while pursuing a creative life. Holding onto long term memories, even seemingly unimportant memories of a time in my life I hadn’t thought of for a long time, left less room in my brain for short term memories, a compromise solved by daily sticky notes in a rainbow of colors left on my computer screen and bathroom mirror.
I recently read a NY Times interview with Charan Ranganath, a neuroscientist and psychologist at the University of California, Davis, discussing his research on memory. As is often the case, when I’m in a whirling circle of thought a sign appears, like this article, that helps frame the questions I have, in this case balancing my mystical interpretations with science.
“I think of memory more like a painting than a photograph. There’s often photorealistic aspects of a painting, but there’s also interpretation. As a painter evolves, they could revisit the same subject over and over and paint differently based on who they are now. We’re capable of remembering things in extraordinary detail, but we infuse meaning into what we remember. We’re designed to extract meaning from the past, and that meaning should have truth in it. But it also has knowledge and imagination and, sometimes, wisdom.” – Charan Ranganath, M.D.
I like to know how things work, especially my body and brain, but I’m more than happy to slide into the mystical to help explain what I don’t understand. Dreams have always been a a source of human inspiration, a peek into the divine, a blending of memory and fantasy, and then, interpretation. I like to live in that space, but I feel grounded and secure when I read about the space Dr. Ranganath lives in and the research he’s doing.
Karl was hired to work as a hairstylist on the set of Amadeus. With his vivacious personality and Germanic visage, Milos Forman was convinced to cast him in a small role as the eccentric wigmaker. In a short scene with Tom Hulce playing Mozart, Karl is fitting Wolfgang for a wig for his introduction to the court of Joseph II, ruler of the Hapsburg monarchy and brother of Marie Antoinette. Karl, surrounded by helpers, adjusts the wig, the composer thrilled and laughing in a shrill peak of excitement. Karl, himself in a ridiculous wig with a large beauty mark on his white-powdered face, made broad, one word compliments in a German accent as thick as applesauce, making the best of his 17 second scene.
A video clip of Karl's scene in Amadeus
Karl and I were both cast in a low budget horror film—a memory I would rather forget—where we worked for three weeks together. I remember driving across the Bridge in my 1972 Mercury Monarch, baby blue with a white top and white interior I bought from my brother-in-law for $500, to pick up Karl at his apartment (he didn’t drive), and transport us to various locations in Oakland, San Jose, Gilroy and Monterrey to the movie set, often night shoots (that’s when zombies wake up). Karl’s character, a talent agent tasked with convincing young actresses to visit Dr. Po’s mysterious island, was killed off by a henchman. I ran around trying to save the scantily-clad actresses from Dr. Po, who with the help of the awakened zombies he raised from the dead, would use the blood of his victims to attain everlasting life. I shot a henchman in the heart with a bow and arrow and killed another after jumping from a rock wall in the dim moonlight, landing on his back, and with my arms around his neck, giving a good twist to break his neck (sound effects added later). Karl thought I was amazing: I thought I was terrible and wanted to crawl in a hole at the premiere.
“Rather than being photo-accurate repositories of past experience, Ranganath argues, our memories function more like active interpreters, working to help us navigate the present and future. The implication is that who we are, and the memories we draw on to determine that, are far less fixed than you might think. “Our identities,” Ranganath says, “are built on shifting sand.” – Charan Ranganath, M.D.
Revisiting memories like this at 61 years old I find I’m much easier on my younger self. I can reframe my identity as a bad actor with high expectations wounded by self consciousness to a confident learner of film and lighting and telling stories from behind the camera instead of in front of it. In the “shifting sand” of my identity I found an acceptance, a chrysalis of youth maturing into a moment of Satori, forged by disease and experience over decades on my heroes journey, only to discover that it was me all along.
A 1 minute Murmuration video (NatGeo)
I was driving through the open plains of Alberta, Canada with my son, Nils, on a short film project we were shooting a few years ago. It was close to dusk, the sun was down yet still illuminating the sky with pink and purple hues. A dark mass on the horizon moved toward us, undulating in and out, up and down, making shapes that a child would describe in animal forms—an elephant, a bear, a whale—swooning down like a wave crashing close to the fields of wheat, then cresting upward again as if they would leave the atmosphere. An ornithologist would describe this as a murmuration, a flock of thousands of starlings moving as one, wing tip to wing tip, a single brain orchestrating their communal flight. I call it a miracle. I use the visual of that memory as a metaphor for my memory cells, swallows as neurons connecting together to make a whole, an unknown force holding it all together for the benefit of remembering my life, my identity. As dusk turns to night the swallows settle in the groves of cotton wood trees as I slip into sleep, my brain going through different stages, including REM sleep, where another unknown source organizes the day’s memories into what stays and what goes.
Karl was a precision hair cutter, a scissors in one hand, comb in the other, orchestrating my cut like a Mozart opera. Even with my square Norwegian head and straight hair he was able to craft a cut worthy of an Italian fashion magazine. His only challenge was battling the short hairs on the sides that met the longer hairs on top, the ones that could not be tamed. Gel would work until it dried and then it would be worse, a fuzzy duckling look. Same for mousse and hairspray. I began to see the value of wearing a Mozart-style wig. But Karl was current on his hair products: he reached into his bag of tricks and pulled out a jar of a brand new product he said might work. “Molding Mud!” he exclaimed. And in the same way he adjusted Wolfie’s wig, he scooped out a big dab of sticky mud in his palms, rubbed his hands together and did his magic on my unruly crest, looking at both of us in the mirror and repeating “Vun-der-ful! Mar-ve-lous!”
I love this story! Thanks for sharing.