"Imagery is not past but present. It rests with what we call our mental processes to place these images in a temporal order"
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Mead is quietly detonating one of our favorite assumptions: that the mind stores “images” like a photo album stamped with dates. For him, imagery doesn’t arrive pre-tagged as memory. It shows up now, in the present tense, as a live event in consciousness. The past isn’t a place the image comes from; it’s a label we assign after the fact.
That reversal is the point. Mead, working in the early 20th-century ferment around pragmatism and social psychology, treats mind as an activity, not a container. An image of childhood, a face, a street, a smell: none of it is inherently “then.” Its temporal status depends on our mental processes - attention, narrative, comparison, language - sorting it into a sequence we can live with. Time becomes less a railroad track the mind rides and more an editorial decision the mind keeps making.
The subtext is almost accusatory: if the present is where imagery actually happens, then our certainty about “what really happened” is shakier than we admit. We’re constantly producing the past in order to stabilize the self. That’s why the line feels modern in an age of therapy-speak and algorithmic “On This Day” nostalgia. The platform serves you an image; you supply the temporal meaning, and with it a story about who you were, who you are, and who you’re allowed to become.
Mead’s intent isn’t to deny history; it’s to relocate it. The past survives only as something the present can organize.
That reversal is the point. Mead, working in the early 20th-century ferment around pragmatism and social psychology, treats mind as an activity, not a container. An image of childhood, a face, a street, a smell: none of it is inherently “then.” Its temporal status depends on our mental processes - attention, narrative, comparison, language - sorting it into a sequence we can live with. Time becomes less a railroad track the mind rides and more an editorial decision the mind keeps making.
The subtext is almost accusatory: if the present is where imagery actually happens, then our certainty about “what really happened” is shakier than we admit. We’re constantly producing the past in order to stabilize the self. That’s why the line feels modern in an age of therapy-speak and algorithmic “On This Day” nostalgia. The platform serves you an image; you supply the temporal meaning, and with it a story about who you were, who you are, and who you’re allowed to become.
Mead’s intent isn’t to deny history; it’s to relocate it. The past survives only as something the present can organize.
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