Memory, or Why Bee Is This Way Sometimes

I have thought about writing this for a long time.  Thought about just telling people about this for an even longer time--and now I feel like I almost have to do it.  So here goes.

*deep breath*

Hi, I'm Bee (or Amy if you know me from work for from my youth) and I have trauma-based memory issues.

So--hi again.  (That is a joke, see?)

In my mid-twenties I sustained a rather serious head trauma which neither my doctors nor I realized was terribly serious right at the time.  We were pretty wrong about that, as it turns out.

I have some kind of serious memory problems, as you may have noticed, or maybe not.

There are two basic ways I have issues with memory--one is likely more apparent to most people, my inability to process linear time, and the second my random (though not consistent and not constant) short term memory processing issues.

The time sense issue is pretty straight forward--I just have no concept of the passage of time.  If you ask me how long ago something happened, I honestly have zero idea.  Could have been last week, could have been 8 years ago it is the same to me.  How long was I married?  5 years?  13?  I truthfully do not know.  And no immediate sense of the passage of time.  How long have I been in line at Target?  3 minutes? an hour?  I cannot tell the difference.   Now--lest you think I am a complete flake--I have pretty well developed ways of keeping track of these kinds of things externally so I can say, fill out a resume or an application for somewhere to live.  In those cases I have my (rather large) database of such things.  It is basically the catalogue of my life--jobs, homes, relationships, friendships, car maintenance--anything which could possibly have a date attached to it is listed.  If it weren't I would have absolutely no idea where to begin.  The only things I can remember with a fair deal of precision are things which occurred before the head injury--so prior to 1994.

I know this sounds weird, and I can imagine it is kind of hard to understand what it feels like.  The best way I can explain it is this.  You know that feeling when you hear a song and you just can't quite remember who sings it?  You KNOW you have this information, you KNOW you have heard the name but it is tantalizingly out of reach.  The harder you think, the blanker your mind gets about that issue.  That is me basically any time something involving a date or time is involved.  How old are my nephews?  When did my mother die?  How long have I lived in this house?  When is anyone's birthday?  No clue.  None whatsoever.  

This particular issue is the reason I am writing this now.  This year will be my 30-year high school reunion.  At this event there will be people I haven't seen in--wait, I know this one!--30 years.  They will of course be asking the kinds of questions one asks long-lost acquaintances.  And I won't have the answers.  I hate this, more than the other annoying parts about the memory issues, I hate that feeling.  The feeling that I am a poor historian of my own life.  And I unfortunately know this to be true as well--it seems like I'm a horrible (and bad) liar.  If you ask me twice in rapid succession a time-related question, you'll probably get two different answers.  And both times I'll be making my very best guess.  

There are so many people in my life--important people to me--that don't know about this, I've never told them.   Why?  Well--it is embarrassing, and people look at you very differently.  Also, they talk louder, which I find weird.  I can hear you just fine...just don't ask me what you said right away after if I'm stressed.

Which leads to the other annoying thing--the random short term memory processing issues. These aren't constant nor consistent.  They are worse when I'm stressed out or overly excitable.   I have trouble with basic spatial memory most of the time.  I have to leave my keys, phone, glasses in the EXACT same place every single time or they are lost to me forever.  Truly, if I go to look for my keys and they aren't in the right place, for all I know I chucked them in the sewer.  I have no idea.  If we have a conversation (particularly an intense or emotional one) and you ask me about it 2 hours later, my memory of it will be vague at best.  Give me 24 hours and it will be better.

This is why I'm good at lists--and given my job I have to be.  A huge part of my job relies heavily on short-term memory--and when I am stressed, mine goes out the window.  Again, I have a very well-developed series of coping mechanisms that you probably never noticed.   All those selfies I take?  Sometimes they aren't just because I'm so cute, sometimes they are to help me remember what day I was at which event and who was there.   If you scrolled through my phone you'd see lots and lots of photos of my car.  Now--I love Ruby, she has been a great car to me, but those aren't because I love her so.  They are there to help me remember where I parked.  If it isn't at my house or assigned parking at work, I can't remember where on earth I left her.  Believe me, if you are riding with me I am COUNTING on you to remember because I know that I absolutely will not.  Ditto my horrible sense of direction.  If I haven't gone somewhere enough times for it to become basic muscle memory, there is a good chance I can't remember how to get there.  It is why I SUCKED at tanking in WoW, and sometimes sucked at healing.  Sure I may have run this instance 50 times, but in some sense it is Groundhog Day for me, every time.

So hey, classmates.  If you are reading this know that I might seem a little weird (okay, weirder than you even remember, which is saying something I know), and a little sketchy about details in my life, but I am genuinely glad to see you and excited to learn about what has been going on in your life.

Everyone else, I hope this explains maybe a few of my oddities--I mean, it doesn't explain my hatred of Nickelback, but does that need explaining?    And I hope that it might start some conversations about memory issues and how they can affect us all--even we younger-ish-kinda and normal-ish seeming folks.  We are all aging, and some of our parents are having memory issues--but talking about them is the right thing to do.  Believe me.

Peace to you,  Bee.

A Visit to Some Old Friends, The Hardings

I needed a bit of a break from things today, some time to clear out the cobwebs in my head and heart.  I'm on a short hiatus from running as my Very Bad Ankle has been hurting and I don't want to suffer an injury at this point of my training.

Running has been my mind-clearing go-to for a while now, but as that was unavailable I reverted to an old favorite--the drive.  The same higher functions that are engaged when running are engaged while driving and the rest of my mind is able to roam free and work through things.  Also, I get to sing at the top of my lungs in the car.  Believe me, the tops of my lungs are quite healthy and you don't want to be terribly close when I get belting.

Off I headed to Marion, OH on this glorious afternoon.  It finally wasn't oppressively hot, it was sprinkling off and on, somewhat overcast and simply a scrumptious day.   I've been fascinated by the Hardings for years.  I grew up a half-hour away from Marion, and for years worked and went to school in Marion, so it is as much as part of my history as anywhere else.  And the Hardings are a big part of Marion.  As we stand close to electing someone like Harding in many ways I thought it fitting to visit.

Most often remembered for the scandals that plagued what became the end of his presidency (Teapot Dome, and his numerous affairs being most notable), the Harding that fascinates me most is Florence.  She was a divorcee, a few years older that Warren.  She married him against her father's wishes (he thought Warren was social-climbing, which was absolutely true) in the house in which they co-habitated.  She was a shrewd businesswoman, a gifted promoter and hostess and was honestly the force behind her husband's business and political success.  With the megaphone given her as first lady, she championed the single working woman, and advocated higher education for all women.  Also, I firmly believe she was involved in the murder of her husband and its coverup, and that she was murdered as well.   But those insane ramblings are for another day, eh?

I leave you with some great pictures--the monument itself is beautiful and, as such things tend to be, a bit lonely and sad.  Warren Harding was beloved by the populace during his presidency, but in the end here he lies in a quiet empty monument rarely visited save for school children.  He is forever known for his excesses and mistakes than the good he did as president.  I left thinking about what was notable in my life, and how I can work to make the notable better.

The Streets of My Town

The streets of my town are not paved with gold,
they are not built of money to spare
but lined with love and hope.
And that is more valuable than cash underfoot.

Pale Grey Lore--Album Review

Hey all!  Been a while since I reviewed some music, but this is absolutely worthy of getting me back on that

wagon!

Album:  Pale Grey Lore
Artist: Pale Grey Lore

• Michael Miller--guitar, vocals, theremin
• Adam Miller--drums, percussion
• Donovan Johnson--bass

 A powerful trio from Columbus OH, Pale Grey Lore combine some rock elements that might surprise your average metal-head.  Fuzzy, crunchy, spacey and thoughtful all at once,and with a theremin.  Seriously, a theremin people. I've heard them described as Doom Rock and that might be accurate to a point--but they are also what I'd call delicately heavy.  Lyrically there is much to think about long after the music stops, and you will think about it, trust me. Their sound is no buzz-saw guitar scream, but a deliberate heavy tread that somehow gently stomps its way into your brain and doesn't let up until it bores its way into your soul.
As good as the album is--and it is good--you simply must at all costs see this band live.  The chemistry among these three coupled with their outsize sound leaves me awestruck every time I've seen them.

Some highlights from their debut:

Life in the Hive--If you work in an office, I guarantee you will find yourself humming this song ceaselessly.  The doomy dystopia of the lyrics seems to speak directly to those of us laboring in our own hives, and that chorus!  Heavy with a goregous descant over top--be still my heart.

The Conjuration--not going to lie, this is probably my fave song on the album.  It has earned a spot on my running playlist, which believe me is saying something.  Guitar so fuzzy it crackles on a kick-ass riff that pushes me to sprint on hills, I could (and have) listened to this on repeat.

She Radiates--If you were wondering when a metal band was going to maximize the theremin (and if you weren't, I'm not sure why we are friends) this song does just that.  With none of the edge of slight menace evident in the rest of the album, this is nearly sweet and a lovely romantic song.

Woe Betide Us and Black Sun Rise showcase the band's clear love for early Black Sabbath while putting their own distinctive stamp on the sound.  These two also feature vocalist Michael Miller at his Osbourne-iest.

You can stream the album on bandcamp as below--but I suggest getting your own copy.  You'll want to listen to it over and over.

Cartwheels, Joy

This morning I was running--and for once in my life I was actually feeling good about it. I almost kind of understood the "good" reasons that people subject themselves to this daily torture, I know my motivations for starting to run again were nothing short of horrible.

But anyway. I was done running, on the walking cooldown which comes up alongside a lovely great field complete with wildflowers and butterflies. Without even stopping to think, I plopped my phone and keys in the grass and started to turn row after row of cartwheels.

I don't often feel carefree, I am rarely secure--these are luxuries I can no longer afford. But looking at that beautiful meadow filled with the pink-gold light of morning I felt pure joy. I couldn't control my need to express it--hand, hand, sweep over, foot, foot. Again and again. Watching the world go 'round from grass to sky and back.

Joy sneaks upon us unawares, sometimes ushered in by folks we least expect. To those who have given me so much joy, thank you for spotting me in this tricky business of learning to turn the handsprings of life once again.

How Do I (Not) Love Thee?

with apologies to Elizabeth Barrett Browning

How do I hate thee, scientific notation in Word?
Let me count the ways.
I hate thee to the depth and breadth and height
My hands can reach, while making a strangling motion toward your programmer.
I hate thee to the level of vision I have lost
Squinting at the incredibly small text you create.
I hate thee freely, as I strive to format you;
I hate thee purely, as one keystroke changes my font.
I hate thee with the passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood’s faith.
I hate thee with a hate I once reserved for
People who leave shopping carts in the middle of close parking spaces at the grocery.
Tears, Disappointment, Frustration, of all my life!
And, if God choose,
I shall hate thee even more after death.

Small Epihpany

Last night I went for a run/walk in the woods. I was going hard, trying to run away from this week. Music pumping, constant loop of harangue going in my brain--generally about how much I hate running.
It was a beautiful night though, and at some point I noticed this.
Even as I stood there stunned motionless by the beauty I could finally see, my brain still whirled like a waterwheel on the crazy river of these past few months.
All the stress, all the pressure, all the decisions I've had to make, all the commitments being asked, all the heartbreaking realizations and losses--I wondered how I would survive this.
But. That is the only thing I am certain I am good at--surviving. Empirical evidence: 48 years of survival.
In the end, even in the deepest of dark moments I survive.
Things, people, love and heartache will come and go, but I persist.
And what do I need really to survive? Looking around I realized that all I needed was here.
Above me were the entwined fingers of the overhanging trees, the honeysuckle, blown into flower hung heavy in the air, and the warm humid breeze felt as gentle as a caress.
I was in the presence of the Divine. God, Nature, What Is, The Windhover--whatever you would choose to call it, the Divine reached for me.
There, cradled in its arms, safer and more wanted than in the arms of any lover, I understood finally the most important truth I can ever know.
I am.
That is it.
Me. Bee.
I am.
I am never alone, never can be. Even if I don't realize it, even if I don't notice or care; the holy goes on.
The holy is the force that through the green fuse drives the flower, it is the fresh smell after a summer rain, it is the motion in my limbs, it is the moonrise in my window.
It is me.
I stood a long while in its grace and listened to it speak with the old brag of my heart:
I am. You are. I am. You are.

Real

"Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby.  But these things don't matter at all, because once you are Real, you can't be ugly, except to people who don't understand." 
(from the Velveteen Rabbit, by Margery Williams)

LaPorte, Indiana by Jason Bitner and The Lone Surfer of Montana Kansas by Davy Rothbart

In the vein of things I like, which is as good a thing as any to write about, I would like to honor our neighbors to the north. No, not Canada. Some fellows from Ann Arbor, Michigan who are just about the most interesting and creative people I've run across.

Davy Rothbart and Jason Bitner are the creators and editors of Found Magazine. If you haven't had a chance to visit the website, please do so now. I will wait for you... See now, wasn't that cool? I highly recommend getting your hands on a copy of the magazine though, it is even more interesting than the website.

Both Rothbart and Bitner have recent "solo" projects that are every bit as good as Found.

Jason Bitner has recently published LaPorte, Indiana, a lovely, thoughtful glimpse into the heyday of a small Midwestern town. LaPorte is composed entirely of photographs--studio portrait proofs which span the 1950's and 60's.

It would have been all too easy for Bitner to publish a snarky, post-modern book that points out the lapses of fashion sense, hickishness, and just basically mocks the folks of LaPorte for our amusement.

But what Bitner has done is present these photos as little trinkets, little shards of other people's life without judgement, or comment. These little bits of ephemera can help us see the humanity in the extras that wander through the movie of our life. LaPorte gives us glimpses at the beginnings, middles and sometimes ends of stories, from people frozen at a moment in time, a moment they wanted to memorialize.

As a committed Midwestern gal myself, I felt the tug of home while reading this book, and once again was captivated by the beauty and life that surrounds us here in the heartland. No less than John Mellencamp, whom I respect greatly has said about LaPorte: “These are real people. The grace and dignity one sees in their faces should be a source of hope for us all.” I second that emotion, and encourage you to take a look

Davy Rothbart has released a collection of short stories, The Lone Surfer of Montana, Kansas.

This isn't to say that you won't laugh out loud while reading this book, Rothbart does an admirable job balancing pathos with just enough humor to keep it bearable, but not enough to make light, so that when the whole thing comes crashing down you are stunned by the suddenness and inevitability of it.

A wonderful book by a writer with a sure, clear voice and a command of the tricky language of non-preachy salvation. You can easily read this book in an afternoon, but you'll be thinking about it for days to come.

So, although I fear this will get me run out of Columbus on a rail, I tip my hat to the boys from Ann Arbor, and look forward to hearing much more from both of them.

Devil In the Details by Jennifer Traig

I'm not a great one for memoirs but as Jennifer Traig writes about a subject that affects several people I know, I simply couldn't resist.

Anne Lamott once said that what the world needed were more funny books about dealing with serious subjects (her book Hard Laughter is a case in point) Thankfully, Jennifer Traig has come along with just the funny book I needed.

As the subtitle "scenes from an obsessive girlhood" implies, Jennifer Traig has Obsessive Compulsive Disorder (OCD). She has bouts with a particularly nasty strain--scrupulosity, which is driven by severe and rigorous religious standards.

From several whirls with anorexia, to a personal strain of Judaism so strict she can't bathe for three weeks, eat meat and milk on the same day, or use the letter x (it's a cross, and to touch it means you've converted to Christianity) Traig describes it all from the inside. You wouldn't expect the next words out of my mouth to be "I laughed so hard my chest hurt" but that is in fact the truth.

With her ever changing compulsions, Traig gets herself into some pretty ridiculous situations, and she laughs right along with us. She hints at the unhappiness that (I can assure you) a teenager with OCD feels, and at family strife over her ever changing illness, but she doesn't dwell on it. Far from making fun of OCD, or glossing over the very real consequences of her behavior, Traig is looking fondly at her childhood--as any woman in her thirties would. The only difference is that most women in their thirties don't have memories of compulsory, hours-long, desperate tea rituals with stuffed animals. She is tender with both herself and her family, and the mistakes that, with the gift of hindsight, we can see they made in dealing with her disease. As she points out though, it was the mid-70's and OCD wasn't widely recognized. Through all the hand-washing, rituals, and miles and miles of paper towels the Traigs are held together by love.

As someone who lives with OCD, I know it is difficult to handle, and even harder to explain. Why am I tying and re-tying my shoes 15 times? I have no idea, but believe me, it looks more fun than it is. One of my own personal best answers to the persistent musical question: "Why don't you just stop that?" has always been "Sure. Just as soon as you just stop growing." Now I think I'll give this book to some people in my life, and maybe we can finally laugh our way to understanding each other.

The Otherwise Girl by Keith Claire

For a person who loves to read as much as I do, I own few books. I'm mostly interested in the reading, not the having. So if I have a copy of a book, it is usually a favorite. I have owned a copy of this book since I first read it in my late teens, and have read it far too many times to count.  I named this blog and many of my social medial accounts after it. I love it that much.  Judging by the fact that this review has always been number one in views, many other people love it as well.

The story opens with our narrator, Matt rolling into a quaint northern England village for a holiday with an old family friend, Dockhurst. Dock is an eccentric painter who is like an uncle to 15-year-old Matt and has invited him down from London for some drawing lessons.

Matt is met at the bus stop by a fire-haired beauty named Chloe who leads him out to Dock's studio/barn on the edge of town. Matt is instantly attracted to Chloe, who isn't all that she seems. In learning what it means to be "otherwise," Matt helps Chloe find what she has been looking for, and learns that sometimes love means letting go.

Honestly, I can't tell you much more without giving away important plot points.
I would absolutely recommend this book for an older middle-school/high school aged girl. I've always been an Anglophile, even as a kid, and Claire weaves in enough details of village life to make me want to go the Elverly on vacation. Although originally published in 1976, the story is in no way dated.  It doesn't mention technology which might sound a little clunky to modern teen ears, but given the milieu I don't think it would cause the book to sound too clunky to modern pre-teen ears.

Claire also does an especially good job with the awkwardness of being a teen--when you feel all elbows and knees, words don't come out like you think they should, and you are filled with longings you don't understand. While "otherwise" has a very concrete meaning in the story, there is a deeper level here--growing up is becoming otherwise, with the childhood you left behind only a shadowy memory.

I absolutely adored this book as a teenager, and again as an adult. This is the sort of book that stays with you and I have often thought about it through the years. My copy is beyond tattered and torn, so I'm going to order a new copy from Amazon. You can get one for a penny (plus shipping and handling, so about $3.50 total) well worth it in my mind.

Just in case my glowing praise didn't convince you, Google "The Otherwise Girl" (don't omit the quotes) and see how many people mention this as a fave book.