So much useless information — so little time...
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Recently I have noticed a disturbing trend. My ability to retain and
assimilate information is deteriorating — big time.
It's more than not being able to remember obscure stuff, like what we had to learn in 7th grade about Napoleon stabbing Julius Caesar and stuff. It's everyday things.
Things I should be able to recall, like the paragraph I read just moments ago.
I
blame the media and technology, and my own unhealthy addiction to them.
You've heard the expression curiosity killed the cat? Well in a world with
hundreds of cable channels, morning and afternoon papers, 24-hour news
channels, innumerable talk shows, and magazines for every sub-group of every
sub-group, my appetite for information is killing me. My shelves groan with
how-to books, periodicals and novels. If Martha Stewart wants to tell me how
to make candied pansies, I can't just ignore her, can I?
| "If Martha Stewart wants to help me make candied pansies, I can't just ignore her, can I?" |
Just because I can, I check my messages from my cell phone on my way to the
grocery store to get I don't remember what. I check e-mail on my laptop
while sipping coffee at my favorite café. Remember that lab
experiment where rats pressed a button to get a pleasurable sensation, then
kept on doing it until they wasted away and died? Yeah. That's me.
I find myself actually co-opting other people's experiences, living other
people's lives. "Ah, the bottlenose dolphins of the Amazon are magnificent,
are they not?" then "Wait, I've never been past Tijuana, what am I saying?"
I confuse my sources of information, and then usually the information
itself. "I read or saw somewhere... something about how the Shakers use this
thing... to, um, make their rockers..." my voice trails off weakly, and my
listener looks at me blankly. My retention rate is two hours, on average.
I've named this The Sieve Brain Rebellion. SBR is the condition whereby
excess information that flows into the brain shall flow out again promptly.
Like a sieve, see?
| "I'm a soccer mom, a freelance-writer mom. I'm Betty Crocker on crack." |
Long gone are the endless days of youth, lying on my back watching the
clouds majestically sail by: That one looks like an elephant!... will I
EVER be 18?... that one is definitely a rabbit... wonder what mom's making
for dinner? There was so much more time to think about... so much less.
These days, I balance the details of my life like an acrobat with plates
spinning at the end of every appendage: need milk... call Carolyn... go
to DMV... get shin guards... hungry... go to dry cleaner... need milk.
I'm a soccer mom, a freelance-writer mom. I'm Betty Crocker on crack.
I once read — I can't remember where — that people should exercise
their brains like a muscle, by doing crossword puzzles and playing games
like Scrabble and chess. So I started staying up way past my bedtime,
playing backgammon or gin rummy, rule book at my side. ("Does two of a kind
count?") But I haven't seen any improvement. Perhaps I'm fighting a losing
battle. You've heard of linear thinkers? My thoughts are like autumn leaves
scattering down the sidewalk and finally clumping against a lamppost.
But as the millennium nears, I must keep up — evolve, if you will
— and so I have learned to compensate by making lists. Quick lists,
elaborate, bullet-point lists, long-, medium- and short-range lists. On the
rare occasions when I'm sitting idly, I make mental lists for sheer
entertainment value. Fun Words To Say (pork chop, weasel, gherkin).
Celebrities I Don't Get (Jane Seymour, Tom Cruise, Jane Seymour).
| "My thoughts are like autumn leaves
scattering down the sidewalk and finally clumping against a lamppost." |
I used to make lists on just about anything: gum wrappers, check deposit
slips, my hand. Then I bought a deluxe, leather-bound Filo-Fax. It is the
birthplace of All That Which Will Happen. Friends and relatives remark on my
"thoughtfulness" for "remembering" their birthdays or anniversaries, and I
smugly take credit — "Great, hope you get a lot of use out of that
blender. And hey, happy Groundhog Day!" But very quickly, my organizer took
over my life. I gave it too much power, I personalized it, and now it's
doing my living for me. It's a very co-dependent relationship.
It has occurred to me that perhaps I'm addicted to speed, and its ugly twin
sisters — media overload and confusion. It seems I am ever upping the ante,
increasing the pace, taking on more until I am ready for Frances
Farmer-land. It's no wonder I can barely remember anything; I have literally
maxed out my hard drive. Maybe there's some kind of patch to help wean me
back to the simpler life, or maybe I should go cold turkey and kill off the
organizer altogether. Then, in the ensuing vacuum, schedule nothing. No
birthday parties, no play-dates, no soccer. No newspaper, talk shows, TV,
e-mail. I'll just floooaat out in space like Major Tom. (Okay, I'd keep the
talk shows and the e-mail, but I'd, you know, cut down. At first.) Would the
loud silence, the endless, unplanned calendar yawning before me like a
terrifying chasm be unbearable?
For now, all I can do is keep treading the squeaky rat wheel and
occasionally entertain one of my favorite fantasies: I imagine myself
tripping on an escalator, arms loaded with party favors, dry cleaning and
milk, and falling head over heels in slow motion. I suffer from amnesia, and
during my long convalescence at Sunny Brook Farm — in between games of
badminton and ping pong — my memories would gradually return. I picture
myself out on the grounds on my chaise lounge in my bathrobe and sunglasses,
regaling my fellow amnesiacs with all the factoids and information released
from memory by my fall. Like the name of Fellini's first film, or the
capital of Nebraska, or how to make candied pansies. What a splendid and
comforting dream.
But I have no time to daydream. I gotta go — I need milk. And butter.
And dammit what was that other thing?!?
Julie
Braslaw is a writer, mama, part-time neurotic and full-time Sieve
Brain living in Oakland, California.
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