The Mandelbear's Musings

I have occasionally remarked that I have the verbal memory of a mayfly. An articulate, but easily-distracted mayfly, at that. An incident from last May, appropriately enough, will serve to illustrate this:

Somebody, let's say "A" because names aren't important here, was crashing in our room for a few hours. She woke up briefly, listened to a phone message from, let's say "B", gave me a verbal response, and went back to sleep. A while later B showed up on IM and I attempted to deliver the message. I garbled it, substituting an approximation to an important phrase. B responded rather sharply, and fortunately used the exact wording from the original message, reminding me of the words A had actually said.

OK, so let's review: a two-sentence message, a quarter of an hour, and I couldn't remember it. If I'm reminded soon enough I may remember exact wording, and if there's a big load of emotion attached I might even remember it for a long time.

The bottom line is this: if you want me to remember something, you'll have to let me write it down. This goes for phone messages, shopping-list items, your name, anything. Even something as simple as "say hello to so-and-so for me" is more likely than not to get forgotten over the course of my drive to work.

This doesn't apply nearly as strongly to words that I first see in writing, but it is pretty specific to words, melodies (to a somewhat lesser extent) and, somewhat oddly, faces. I'll remember your face the next time I see you, but I won't remember your name unless you remind me or you're wearing a nametag (I love conventions). An hour later, I won't remember the color of your eyes even if I tried to notice and remember them while I was talking to you.

It takes listening to a song maybe a dozen times before I get to the point where I can remember even bits of it without the words in front of me, or enough of the melody to where I could sing it from a lyric sheet. Even then I'm likely to change some of the notes, or even change it from major to minor.

Three weeks ago on a drive with Colleen I came up with an analogy:

"Do you remember all the dialog of a movie the first time you see it?"

"Depends on the movie."

"Well, I never do. After I get out of the theatre I'm lucky to remember a quarter of the scenes and a dozen lines of dialog. To me, life is exactly like a movie that I'm seeing for the first time."

Some people, apparently, have extremely exact memories for conversations. They can replay them in their heads, word for word, with every nuance of tone of voice preserved, even years later. It must be a terrible burden as well as a great convenience; I imagine that it might sometimes be a comfort as well. I'll never know.

Other people may think they have an exact memory, but it plays tricks on them; Colleen is often in this category. She'll get the gist of the conversation right, but often can't (or at least doesn't try to) distinguish between what she's quoting and what she's paraphrasing. I think most people fall into this category.

Some of us, and I in particular, at least know that we can't remember words, and try to give fair warning about it. When I'm thinking about it, at least, I'll try to write things down, and when I'm trying to report a conversation I'll usually remember to wrap it in a disclaimer of some sort. If I'm in the middle of some other task, or away from something I can write on, I'll usually say something like "remind me this evening." I need to get more consistent at these; I've gotten in a lot of trouble over short but important instructions or messages that I've forgotten.

I'm sure that my lack of verbal memory is frustrating and baffling to people who have one. They simply don't understand that I can't be relied on to deliver even a simple message if I don't have paper handy or if I'm in the middle of some other task.

In addition to having a poor memory for spoken words, I have a very bad memory for people. That is to say, although I can often remember either a name or a face when I see it, I can only rarely remember the connection between them.

There are plenty of people on my LJ friends list who I know I added after a terrific conversation at a con; I probably have no idea what we talked about, and probably don't remember your face either, unless it's on your userpic. I have a much easier time remembering a face if I've seen someone perform; I'll associate the person with the songs, especially if I've seen the lyrics before with their name attached. Even just having seen someone's username before I meet them will help.

I have a pretty good memory for processes, and for places. The morning before Baycon cflute was startled to find that I remembered, a couple of years after a visit to her house, that she prefers her bacon pan-fried rather than microwaved. That's easy. I remember how my Dad made blueberry pancakes and fried matzoh in our kitchen in Connecticut nearly fifty years ago.

Oddly, what little memory for words and people I do have is strongly tied to location: places and scenery. Time of day to a lesser extent. I don't remember much about the garbled phone message, but I remember the room we were in: the desk, the bed, the window. The position of my laptop on the desk as I was typing into IM.

I don't remember much of writing Rainbow's Edge, but I remember exactly where I was standing and what I was doing when I wrote the lines, "I'm standing here doing the morning chores/And trying hard not to cry." I can never remember the words, but I remember where I was standing when I sang it at Dad's memorial service; the layout of the room, and the lectern where I put the lyrics. I don't remember where anyone was sitting.

Long after I've forgotten everything we said in a conversation, I'll remember where we were sitting. Long after I've forgotten your face and the sound of your voice, I'll remember the table, the chairs, and the flavor of tea you served.

I don't remember much of the first time I made love; not her face or the color of her eyes, but I remember the woods and the sleeping bag, and the twilight. I don't remember what she said to me, but I remember the slope of the hillside and her utter surprise that she was the first. They're all tied to the place.

It works both ways. I stand by the dishwasher and remember writing "Rainbow's Edge" -- and start composing a paragraph about memory and place. I walk past a tree on my lunchtime walk and remember what Callie and I were talking about when I passed it months ago. I revisit my old college campus for a 30-year reunion, and find myself walking at the exact same pace as I did when I was a student.

I realized quite recently that my memory for place and process is why I use location and process-state cues for keeping track of things. I move my nose spray from one side of a certain pill bottle to the other, to remind myself whether I last took it in the morning or evening. The dishwasher stays on after it's been run, showing a "0" on its time display. I turn it off when I empty it, to remind myself whether the dishes in it are dirty or clean. I leave the lid of the rice cooker open until I've washed it.

I often find myself stopping, confused, while on my way to do something. I "launched myself" in a particular direction, with a task in mind, but got distracted somehow. I'm no longer in the place where I thought of the activity, nor in the place where I can do it; as a result, the mental trigger I need to remember it is missing. Embarrassing, but that's just the way it is.

This can happen with speaking and writing, too; I think of something I need to say to somebody, but when next I see them I'm no longer in the place where I thought of it. It sometimes takes several visits back to the place before the memory gets sufficiently solidified to travel.