What is the cement of memory?
Does what we remember form who we are?
Why do we forget 99% of our lives?
As I typed this opening
paragraph
in 2019, my brain was switching between thoughts about choosing interesting
words that would entertain itself as it compiled this sentence and—
switch—scrounged thru my memory-attic for events which might fit in a bright mauve
container labelled ‘
overwhelming’. My as-I-typed brain then decided that the first event to go in was
Witnessing—for almost two full minutes—the
2017 total eclipse of the sun. I had prepared for that event for months. I'd bought expensive wrap-around viewing glasses and a phone-app to track
where the shadow was going to be. Weeks earlier, I'd driven a few hundred
miles to reconnoiter and read articles describing what to look for when
it happened. The day of, I had woke at 4am for a 5am departure in order to
set-up three hours ahead of time and as the moon began to creep across the
sun, I recalled aloud (for the handful of people with me) memories of a few previous
partial eclipses and I used the term
underwhelming to describe those
curled and faded snapshots.—
switch—Those vague recollections of pinholes in paper and flimsy cardboard glasses
were now attached—like a deflated balloon static-stuck to the back of a
worn-out child’s sweater—to this 2017 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 became 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. My brain could not catch up. There was no time to think or
focus.
—
switch—It seems that my as-I-type brain considers it to be desirable when it-itself is
unable to function as it normally functions (which, it considers to be
its norm; its steady-state; its comfortable, uneventful, default mode; its
regular state of being, which is
neither over- nor 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 documenting my 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 that previous-me wrote)—I would, very soon, no longer be able to
recall how I occupied myself this 2019 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?” 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).
Earlier in 2019, I drove 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 2019 drive memorably
underwhelming?
One answer is that my preconceived
expectations were unmet; during my first visit to Glacier National Park (in 2006) 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 (and was slightly overwhelmed seeing): bald eagle, elk, black bears and grizzly
bears, and experienced no vehicle traffic or full parking lots.
