Imprinting

I only watch ghost hunting shows to scoff at them. Not three minutes ago, I snorted at the mention of a machine that "scientifically measures human emotional states." The word "scientific" automatically validates almost anything. I swear I could sell a Unicorn Detector if I slapped that word on the box.

Then I heard the explanation of a theory that made me think of our class. It's called "imprinting" or "place memory," a theory that proposes extreme emotions (rage, terror) can embed themselves in the environment where they occurred.

I have always been very honest about the fact that I don't believe in ghosts. There's just no room for them in my concept of this planet. Still, I was intrigued by the theory of imprinting, and whether or not a place carries with it the events that occur within it. It almost knocks the first word off of the saying, "If these walls could talk."

I went to Italy with my senior Humanities class in high school, and as we went through Plaza San Marco, The Pantheon, The Vatican, and the Coliseum, I was flooded with thoughts of what had happened there. Who had died, what decisions had been made, whose paths had crossed. Thoughts like those, not ghosts, are what give me chills.

Harmonious/Hostile Environment

Harmonious
His voice is cool and even, the curve of his lips making his smile audible. His words tumble easily from his mouth as his long fingers travel across the board. He nudges one slider up, and with his thumb on the same hand, switches off the input from the automation. With a deft hand, he removes a CD from its plastic pocket, reaches behind himself, and slips it into the player, pausing it before it even begins. He switches off the microphone with one hand, and switches to a new input with the other. As he moves away from the microphone, he removes the headphones with an almost feline fluidity. Music fills the room and he takes serene strides across the room, rolling open a drawer and replacing an old CD. He closes the drawer and opens the one directly beside it, the drawers moving like counterbalances inside a clock. There is a moment of consideration, and he plucks a new selection from thousands, and returns to his chair, avoiding the wires and cables that hang like jungle vines from every counter.

Hostile
He stutters into the microphone as his fingertip slips off the large yellow "OFF" button. He turns his head to see what had gone wrong, and hears a tumbling and grating noise. He has knocked the microphone away with the bulky headphones. He grabs at it, bringing it back to his face. This time he watches his mischievous hands and makes nervous adjustments to the sliding controls, tweaking dials that don't matter. He pushes a heavy switch and there is a thudding click, but no music. Two seconds of silence drag by as he fumbles for the off switch of the microphone. The music cuts in awkwardly, on an upbeat with the singer in the middle of a word. He rolls back in his chair to pick up the case of a CD he just finished playing, dragging the input cord with him. Again, silence. He stands, seizing the end of the cord and jamming it back into the computer, which nearly knocks it off the stool it had been perched on. When everything has been set aright, he freezes for a moment, waiting for something else to fall out of place.