It is hard to write when you're feeling tired. I'm very tired today, so this may be a somewhat dull and plodding post... I thought of something to write just now, but - it's gone. Can't remember it. If I went back to where I was when I thought it, I'd probably remember it again. But I'm sitting here now, and I need to go to bed soon, so I won't.
I'll write about memory instead. Memory scares me sometimes. It's the fear of losing it. Maybe I've read to much about memory loss; watched too many documentaries about people that have lost theirs...
Actually, I haven't read that much - the neurologist, Dr Oliver Sachs' book, The Man Who Mistook His Wife For A Hat, made a big impression on me. It's an excellent book made up of a series of case studies of his patients who have sustained (or been born with) an excess or lack of some brain function. It's really interesting; brilliantly written. One case study was about a man who had lost his long-term memory. He could only remember the previous few minutes - only for as long as the event stayed in his short-term memory. Nothing new transferred into his long-term memory. So after a couple of minutes each new memory would fade and be lost. He had to be retold daily what had happened to him. The death of his mother? brother? I can't remember who (I read it a long time ago) was a new tragedy for him to absorb each day... It sounds like a terrible sort of limbo to me.
I saw a fascinating documentary some years ago about three men who had suffered some kind of memory loss. One was a conductor. He had also lost his long-term memory, and in every day life he too couldn't remember things for more than a few minutes. What was really interesting, though, was that he could still learn a whole new piece of music and conduct an orchestra for over an hour at a time. Music, it seemed, is stored in a different area of the brain.
I read The Man Who ... when I was a teenager; and that documentary must have aired at least a decade ago; but they both made a strong and lasting impression on me. What is it that makes certain things stick? Are some things intrinsically interesting - the human mind, for instance? Or did those things just stick in my mind? What makes us interested in particular things in the first place?
I'm sure the answer to those questions is out there, written on reams of paper in stacks of books and theses, but I don't think I need to go looking for an answer. I'm happy in this case just to delve into my own memory to find my answers.
After all, I'm so tired, I just need to log off now; haul my way up stairs; clean my teeth; and climb into my lovely inviting cosy bed.
