We spill into the city like members of a congregation leaving a domed church, our footsteps, clapping down the concrete landings, resounding the benediction:may your come-from-behind win over the Yankees give you peace, may this moment keep you warm deep into the spring night, and may your road ahead be filled with victories like this one, forever and ever, amen. Fireworks cast flashes of yellow and blue across the shifting crowds. We divide into lines and veer off in search of our way home. I follow my friend through a human maze, across intersections and around corners—each block grows quieter than the last, each block thins the crowd. We are almost alone when he turns to me and says that his dad died two years ago today, that this is the second anniversary of his passing.
The first Major League game he attended was in ’86. His dad brought him to the Dome for a match up between the Twins and the A’s. Puckett batted for the cycle, Blyleven threw his 3,000th strikeout, and to top it off, the third base ump tossed him a game ball between innings. His dad, who grew up watching Mick and Koufax, told him that watching Puck was just as good. Years later, only weeks after Puckett was inducted into the Hall of Fame, they traveled together to see the hallowed grounds of Cooperstown. Three years after that, his dad was gone.
Tonight, as we walk beyond the reach of the Dome and its crowd, he says to me, “Grief is not as painful as regret, and dads were invented to go to baseball games with, and as long as long as your dad’s still around, there’s nowhere else you should be.”
("After the Game" is an excerpt of "Easter Baseball," an essay I wrote in 2006.)
Tuesday, July 8, 2008
Tuesday, July 1, 2008
"...On Memory" addendum:
This afternoon, after posting my last entry, I sat down with yesterday's Star Tribune and found the following passage, which, I think, does a better job than myself in explaining the way we story information.
"The brain does not simply gather and stockpile information as a computer's hard drive does. Facts are stored first in the hippocampus, a structure deep in the brain about the size and shape of a fat man's curled pinkie finger. But the information does not rest there. Every time we recall it, our brain writes it down again, and during this restorage, it is also reprocessed. In time, the fact is gradually transferred to the cerebral cortex and is sepaarated from the context in which it was originally learned."
Wang, Sam. "Whose Words These Are I Think I Know..." Star Tribune, Op-Ed. Sunday, June 29, 2008.
"The brain does not simply gather and stockpile information as a computer's hard drive does. Facts are stored first in the hippocampus, a structure deep in the brain about the size and shape of a fat man's curled pinkie finger. But the information does not rest there. Every time we recall it, our brain writes it down again, and during this restorage, it is also reprocessed. In time, the fact is gradually transferred to the cerebral cortex and is sepaarated from the context in which it was originally learned."
Wang, Sam. "Whose Words These Are I Think I Know..." Star Tribune, Op-Ed. Sunday, June 29, 2008.
Some Thoughts on Memory
This was us the other night:
“I love you.”
“I love you too.”
“Olive juice.”
Laughter.
“Olive juice too.”
“What movie is that from?”
Neither of us could remember.
“Isn’t it weird how I could reach over and grab my computer (or my phone or iPod, even) and find out the movie in two seconds? Ten years ago, we would’ve had to ask around and wrack our brains, and we maybe never would have figured it out.”
We talked about this for a while and went to sleep. But in the days that followed, I couldn’t let it go. I kept coming at it from different angles. I was excited that we now have so much information at our fingertips, but I was curious if by not wracking our brains we suffer a crucial loss. I wondered if there was something in spending a few days trying to remember something that is essential and balancing.
On a related note, a few days before our “Olive Juice” conversation, I was standing in line at Starbucks and this young couple in front of me ordered seven espresso drinks from memory, most of which had at least one variation—i.e. decaf, non-fat, etc. Not having a list to help them, their order came out as a rambled trip through free-associations.
She would say, “Bridget wanted a mocha with white chocolate, and she didn’t want any whip cream and she wanted it to be non fat. It was non-fat, right?”
And he would say, “And decaf!”
For seven drinks, they did this…much to mine and the barista’s chagrin.
What was interesting was that when it was all said and done, when they had ordered and I had ordered and we had all left, I could still recall every drink they ordered, variations order included.
1. Grande non-fat, no-whip, decaf White Chocolate Mocha.
2. Venti Caramel Frappuccino.
3. Grande, no-whip Vanilla Crème Frappuccino.
4. Double tall non-fat Latte.
5. Grande Latte.
6. Grande non-fat, w/whip Mocha.
7. Tall, decaf Caramel Macchiatto.
Memory works like this: we take in, file away, then recall. Unfortunately, most of what we take in and file away, we lose. Only the surface oil of memory matter remains within our reach. And usually, what comprises that oil—that residue that sticks—is something we have a strong emotional connection to, a common relationship to, or have some strong and clear grouping for.
I could remember the line “olive juice” because it had affected me. I must’ve had a strong reaction to it when I first saw the film. And probably, the rest of the film was not nearly as memorable. And then, regarding the espresso drinks, I have spent a year working at a Starbucks, so when I hear a complicated order, it’s still just a single drink to me. I only had to remember seven things, not seven lists, like they did, which draws both on familiarity and grouping.
One more example, then I’ll get to my point.
In high school, I used to tell people that I had memorized a 100-digit number and that I could prove it. Without skepticism or enthusiasm, they’d agree to play along. I would give them a pen and paper and tell them to write each number down as I said it and to then read along as I recited the number for a second time. And every time, it worked.
Half of the people I did this to were impressed. The other half recognized that there was a trick. And at least half of those figured out what my trick was, which allowed them to turn around and immediately compile their own 100-digit number.
My trick was to draw a mental, geographical map of fourteen friends whose phone numbers I had memorized (This was before cell phones and speed dialing—most people had at least this many numbers memorized). Then all I had to do was follow my map, going from one friend to the next, reciting each of their numbers along the way. I didn’t use area codes for obvious reasons—imagine if I had said 6 then 1 then 2 after every seventh number (again, seeing as this was pre cell phones, every suburban region did not yet have its own area code). And because 14 x 7 is two shy of an even 100, I’d start my list with the numbers 1 and 2.
Now, alas, my point: we’re getting dumber.
We used to have dozens of phone numbers memorized, and we used to have to try and solve for ourselves what movie a line came from. And now, drawing on my example of the hefty Starbucks order, we have focused our memory capacity on function. Think of that espresso bar as a computer. I mastered how to enter and operate the computer. I could easily remember complicated lists by simplifying each run-down into a single image. We do this with almost everything now. I know, for instance, that to get to my photos on my cell phone, I have to press the center, right, center, center, up, up, center. I don’t have to read the screen as I go, looking for the next page to be listed somewhere. I just know.
The problem is, I haven’t actually learned anything. The phone is still the answer. I don’t have those photos frozen into my memory. Instead of being unsophisticated computers, we’re becoming very sophisticated operators. And I can’t help but feel that that’s not an equal trade.
I could go on, but I won’t. I’ve probably already broken the longest entry for my blog. And it was all just to say we’re becoming dumb. How nice.
But before I go, does anyone know what movie (or wherever else) saying “olive juice” came from? I’m refusing to Google or Wikipedia it. I’m going old school on this one.
“I love you.”
“I love you too.”
“Olive juice.”
Laughter.
“Olive juice too.”
“What movie is that from?”
Neither of us could remember.
“Isn’t it weird how I could reach over and grab my computer (or my phone or iPod, even) and find out the movie in two seconds? Ten years ago, we would’ve had to ask around and wrack our brains, and we maybe never would have figured it out.”
We talked about this for a while and went to sleep. But in the days that followed, I couldn’t let it go. I kept coming at it from different angles. I was excited that we now have so much information at our fingertips, but I was curious if by not wracking our brains we suffer a crucial loss. I wondered if there was something in spending a few days trying to remember something that is essential and balancing.
On a related note, a few days before our “Olive Juice” conversation, I was standing in line at Starbucks and this young couple in front of me ordered seven espresso drinks from memory, most of which had at least one variation—i.e. decaf, non-fat, etc. Not having a list to help them, their order came out as a rambled trip through free-associations.
She would say, “Bridget wanted a mocha with white chocolate, and she didn’t want any whip cream and she wanted it to be non fat. It was non-fat, right?”
And he would say, “And decaf!”
For seven drinks, they did this…much to mine and the barista’s chagrin.
What was interesting was that when it was all said and done, when they had ordered and I had ordered and we had all left, I could still recall every drink they ordered, variations order included.
1. Grande non-fat, no-whip, decaf White Chocolate Mocha.
2. Venti Caramel Frappuccino.
3. Grande, no-whip Vanilla Crème Frappuccino.
4. Double tall non-fat Latte.
5. Grande Latte.
6. Grande non-fat, w/whip Mocha.
7. Tall, decaf Caramel Macchiatto.
Memory works like this: we take in, file away, then recall. Unfortunately, most of what we take in and file away, we lose. Only the surface oil of memory matter remains within our reach. And usually, what comprises that oil—that residue that sticks—is something we have a strong emotional connection to, a common relationship to, or have some strong and clear grouping for.
I could remember the line “olive juice” because it had affected me. I must’ve had a strong reaction to it when I first saw the film. And probably, the rest of the film was not nearly as memorable. And then, regarding the espresso drinks, I have spent a year working at a Starbucks, so when I hear a complicated order, it’s still just a single drink to me. I only had to remember seven things, not seven lists, like they did, which draws both on familiarity and grouping.
One more example, then I’ll get to my point.
In high school, I used to tell people that I had memorized a 100-digit number and that I could prove it. Without skepticism or enthusiasm, they’d agree to play along. I would give them a pen and paper and tell them to write each number down as I said it and to then read along as I recited the number for a second time. And every time, it worked.
Half of the people I did this to were impressed. The other half recognized that there was a trick. And at least half of those figured out what my trick was, which allowed them to turn around and immediately compile their own 100-digit number.
My trick was to draw a mental, geographical map of fourteen friends whose phone numbers I had memorized (This was before cell phones and speed dialing—most people had at least this many numbers memorized). Then all I had to do was follow my map, going from one friend to the next, reciting each of their numbers along the way. I didn’t use area codes for obvious reasons—imagine if I had said 6 then 1 then 2 after every seventh number (again, seeing as this was pre cell phones, every suburban region did not yet have its own area code). And because 14 x 7 is two shy of an even 100, I’d start my list with the numbers 1 and 2.
Now, alas, my point: we’re getting dumber.
We used to have dozens of phone numbers memorized, and we used to have to try and solve for ourselves what movie a line came from. And now, drawing on my example of the hefty Starbucks order, we have focused our memory capacity on function. Think of that espresso bar as a computer. I mastered how to enter and operate the computer. I could easily remember complicated lists by simplifying each run-down into a single image. We do this with almost everything now. I know, for instance, that to get to my photos on my cell phone, I have to press the center, right, center, center, up, up, center. I don’t have to read the screen as I go, looking for the next page to be listed somewhere. I just know.
The problem is, I haven’t actually learned anything. The phone is still the answer. I don’t have those photos frozen into my memory. Instead of being unsophisticated computers, we’re becoming very sophisticated operators. And I can’t help but feel that that’s not an equal trade.
I could go on, but I won’t. I’ve probably already broken the longest entry for my blog. And it was all just to say we’re becoming dumb. How nice.
But before I go, does anyone know what movie (or wherever else) saying “olive juice” came from? I’m refusing to Google or Wikipedia it. I’m going old school on this one.
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