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My Misconception of how Memory Works

Before I go to sleep each night, I try to think of all of the things I need to do the next day. I was doing just that last night, thinking that I needed to find a way to purchase replacement parts for the landscaping lights that I have destroyed with my weed eater. I thought that I would search the internet to see if I could find some dandy discount pricing on the two or three pagoda lights that I needed and realized that I would need to know the brand name of the lights I currently owned. I installed these lights four years ago, and I�m quite sure that only two references to the manufacturer still exist at the house. Reference one: the power supply box mounted in the basement. Reference two: the instruction and warranty manual located in the filing cabinet. I didn�t really want to go searching for either of these things, so I closed my eyes and thought really hard and voilla! �Malibu!�

For whatever reason, I was impressed with my ability to recall this seemingly inane detail. I can�t imagine why my brain stored that piece of information for the past four years, but it did. The image of a little neuron deep within my brain popped into my mind. I imagined the little guy, half asleep, hanging out in my brain holding onto this piece of information. He�d been there for years and was quite bored, constantly chanting to himself �Malibu, Malibu, Malibu.� And then, one day, the message came his way.

�Yo! Buddy, the Wicked Witch of the West is trying to think of the name of the manufacturer of those landscaping lights in the front yard,� yelled the Memory Center Traffic Manager. �You�re on!�

The little neuron ran forth, adjusting his glasses and wiping his nose on his sleeve. He stepped forth to the microphone in my brain, a squeal of feedback made him jump a bit, and then he delivered the memory.

�Um, Malibu?� he asked more than answered.

No other neurons stepped forth to question his response and so it was accepted. The little neuron blushed then made his way back to his spot in the brain next to �Rojo� the Spanish word for red and �Jenny got off on the wrong foot this year� a piece of feedback written in perfect D'Nealian from my first grade report card.

The whole image of little neurons with personalities made me laugh, and I shared the imagery with Ryan. I�m sure he thought I was crazy as a loon at first, but then I took the idea a step further introducing the personalities for the short term memory neurons. I envisioned them as the workhorses, the jocks. They were really pumped up, good at what they did, but didn�t have much depth. A little neuron that had been hiding in the back since the 2004 Summer Olympics leapt forth and delivered the image of the two USA men�s 100 meter dash guys � the ones wearing gold chains and high-end sunglasses practically running backwards as they crossed the finish line with their hands held high in the air. In my mind, they were stretching and strutting and high fiving (If you want an image, google Justin Gatlin). Anyhow, I compared my short term memory neurons to guys like that. Sure of themselves, the best at what they do, while at the same time a bit over the top and flashy. Whereas a long term memory neuron like our friend Malibu is a bit slow to come forth, shy and pensive, a short term memory neuron is as fast as you can imagine. I asked my mind to recall the name of the movie we�d watched just before going to bed, and he sped forth with his response.

�Tombstone! Der! I knew that. See how I knew that. You KNOW I know!� my little speed demon bragged.

I knew if I were to ask the speed demon to then recall a specific line from the movie, he�d fall flat on his face giving a generic response.

�She wants to know what Doc Holliday said to the poker player in the beginning of the movie before he shot him and took all the chips. Yo, Tombstone � you just saw the movie. What did the good doctor say?� prompted the Memory Center Traffic Manager.

�Uh, um. You�re my Huckleberry???� replied the speed demon.

�Excuse me. Um sir. Um yes, well, um. I believe Doc Holiday asked the poker player �Are we cross?�� said a nervous little neuron quietly from the back.

�Whatever! You wouldn�t know that if I hadn�t told you the name of the movie,� boasted the speed demon.

�Do we have consensus?� asked the Traffic Manager.

�Whatever she said,� replied the speed demon as the little neuron curtseyed then turned to make her way back to her little dwelling deep within my brain.

Not all of my speed demon memories are in their prime. Some were great in their time, however age and life experience may be catching up with them. I compared one of them to local sports hero George Brett. A prime specimen of baseball prowess; incredibly adept at the game of baseball and a true legend in his time. Compare that to the same George I saw a few months ago at a bar slurring his words and acting a bit obnoxious, and you�ve got the speed demon neurons that show up when I�ve been drinking a bit. They are likely to lead me astray, however there confidence remains so they won�t back down when challenged by correct information. These are the neurons that make me repeat myself like an idiot during conversations about inane subjects much to the annoyance of my drinking companions.

Anyhow, this was a fun little exercise and brought me great entertainment. I�m sure it has scared the crap out of you, the gracious reader, as you get a little insight into my gross misunderstanding of how the brain and memory function. Maybe I should have taken that brain and behavior class in college rather than taking Shakespeare.

1:02 p.m. - July 12, 2005

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