Interruptions: a phone call and three text messages. Lately, I've been questioning the accuracy of my memories, not my memory itself as a whole. I have burned too many holes in my bring to expect my memory to function at its fullest human potential. I have conceded portions of my past to the sporadic black holes that polka dot my brain's...look up "memory" in the Thesaurus and Google "the science of memory"...interruptions: three text messages and a cat in my lap...hippocampus, or something like that. Interruptions: one text message, dog food delivery, and four more text messages. This might be the first time I've ever actually tried to distinguish between the different possible meanings for the word "memory," but the definition to which I'm attempting to refer doesn't seem to exist. Interruption: two text messages. Memory is a noun that, by definition, can refer to either our general ability to remember or a specific event or smell or person or story or sensory intake we remember. Neither of those definitions covers the larger, overarching concept of that which holds all that is remembered and makes the act of remembering possible--the sum of all our memories.
I tried to invent a formula--M = mn, if “m” represents the second definition of memory--but it doesn't account for the first definition: the ability to remember. When I think of the ability, I imagine some sort of creature living inside my brain like a big blog with T-Rex arms and a giggly hole for a mouth--basically, a fat, Flubber-like membrane that consumes all of that which my brain, body, and mind experience, or lowercase "m" in my formula. However, unlike Flubber, the membrane is clear so when the memories are swallowed, they become on display within the transparent creature.
Or the membrane is flat and porous, and it grows and evolves and consumes memory after memory, but I'm clogging up my digestive system with toxins and my memories are like premature newborns with fetal-alcohol syndrome--deformed and weak. They're all faded and slightly confusing. In the way my nails and skin are developing a yellow tint from all the cigarettes I smoke, my memory membrane is getting cloudy from all the poison, and I"m not going to be able to see my memories at all eventually if the membrane continues to become...look up antonyms for "transparent"...opaque.
I guess hippocampus might just be the scientific name for what I am failing to describe with metaphor...if I want to make this about science. I wish I could. It would give me a lot more confidence in my crazy theories.
But my hippocampus has little cigarette burns all over it that have turned into black holes. However, the remainder of the membrane woven around and between the black, still intact and sufficiently clear, forms a...look up synonym for membrane and search "the texture of skin" on Reverse Dictionary...thick, flesh-like web of patterns, or clues of my age, sort of like rings on a tree trunk. That part of the membrane is beautiful because it holds all the memories still preserved, or remember-able, and that part of the membrane is becoming an endangered species on my planet.
Interruptions (ignored until now): seven Twitter notifications and four text messages.
Like a nebula and my little "m" memories are whatever forms the rain inside the cloud?
I went so far off track I almost forgot what I was talking about more than twice. Interruptions don't help. I think I've circled around to most of my points except my initial one, though. You know when you can't quite make out what something is in the distance so your brain sort of fills in the blanks until you get close enough for your vision to give your brain enough pieces to build a comprehensible picture? What if you never got closer, and you eventually just leanred to accept the blanks your imagination filled in as your truth, if not The Truth, if there is even a distinguishable difference? I am terrified I have fictionalized and embellished and altered so many pieces of my memory simply for lack of a clear enough view of whatever the capital T Truth may be, if there is one, that my entire past is a figment of my imagination as far as I'm concerned.
I tell stories around people who were also there to see if they confer or if whatever I'm saying happened only happened in my head.
The oddest thing about not trusting your memory is this--if we are made up of our past experiences, and I feel mine are all nothing but a figment of my imagination, then I also am nothing but a figment of my imagination. "I think; therefore I am" never made sense to me because lots of things are but do not think, in the traditional sense. But we arguably don't even think in the "traditional" sense, whatever that even means.
How does one stop lying to oneself?
Meet Me In the Morning
2 years ago