What is the cement of memory?
Does what we remember form who we are?
Why do we forget 99% of our lives?
As I type this opening paragraph, my brain is switching between thoughts about choosing interesting words that will entertain itself as it compiles this sentence and—switch—scrounging thru my memory-attic for events, which can fit in a bright mauve container labelled ‘overwhelming’. My as-I-type brain just decided that the first event to go in, is
Witnessing—for almost two full minutes—the 2017 total eclipse of the sun. I prepared for this event for months. I bought expensive wrap-around viewing glasses and a phone-app to track where the shadow was going to be. Weeks before, I drove a few hundred miles to reconnoiter. I read articles describing what to look for when it happened. The day of, I woke at 4am for a 5am departure in order to set-up three hours ahead of time. As the moon began to creep across the sun, I recalled aloud (for the handful of people with me) a few previous partial eclipses and used the term underwhelming to describe those curled and faded polaroid snapshots.—switch—These vague recollections of pinholes in paper and flimsy cardboard glasses are now attached—like a deflated balloon static-stuck to the back of a worn-out child’s sweater—to the overwhelming event. (I typed ‘overshadowing event’ and edited it so as to not end this paragraph on a pun.)—switch—
The moment when the entire moon’s
shadow—the umbra—completely covered the sun: the blue sky turned
black; the yellow corona around the sun became white; stars were visible; the
air temperature dropped; the silence of no-more bird and insect noises grabbed
for my attention; spots of corona-sunlight, inside of darker shadows, took-on
the changing shape (circular to crescent) of the umbra; and ripples of light
wavered across the ground like faint “light snakes.” My senses were
overloaded. I could not catch up. There was no time to think or
focus on the moment.—switch—It seems my as-I-type brain considers it's desirable when it-itself is unable to function as it's currently functioning (which, it considers to be its norm; its steady-state; its comfortable, uneventful, default mode; its regular state of being, which is neither over- or under-whelmed) and this asItype brain is not putting anything into its memory. Short-term memory disappears unless something over- or under-whelms enough to get stored long-term.
I know if I were not currently writing about thoughts—an act which facilitates asItype to be able, in the future, to become asIread (which, in turn, will become the me that has re-remembered based on what previous-me wrote)—I would, very soon, no longer be able to recall how I occupied myself this mid-November Friday morning. If I'd instead been studying, reading, hiking, gaming, painting, listening to music, watching videos, talking with friends, playing with my cat, or performing routine chores, I would (probably) not be able to answer the question, “What did you do last Friday morning?” Because of these words, these paragraphs, this essay (about normally neither being over- or under-whelmed) I can say I was writing an essay about memory.
Now asItype wonders why are our recollections valued? Is being able to recall something because it was sufficiently overwhelming/underwhelming to become immediately-permanently locked in long-term memory a prerequisite to being consciously aware of what is important to who we are and who we want to be? And—switch—let me dig for a stronger, more recent, memory to stick in the intense yellow underwhelming container (next to those partial eclipses).
Last June, I drove the west-east Going-To-The-Sun Road, through Glacier National Park. I would not use the word boring to describe the slow procession up and over—but I would not use the word exciting either. Rivulets of snow melt soaked me a few times (cabriolet top was down) and some of the hairpin turns with sheer drops revealed very interesting views; but a complete lack of wildlife and over 90 minutes of traffic-jams combined to make the 50-mile drive an unsatisfactory experience.—switch—
Why?—my asItype-self asks itself. What made this memorably underwhelming?
Preconceived expectations were not met—during my first visit to Glacier National Park (13 years ago) the Going-To-The-Sun Road was closed because of snow (which created—in that 2006-me’s brain—an unfulfilled desire). On that trip, I felt privileged-lucky to see: bald eagle, elk, black bears and grizzly bears, and experienced no vehicle traffic or full parking lots.
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