Showing posts with label memory. Show all posts
Showing posts with label memory. Show all posts
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
Pay Attention to This One!
They keep saying that business is becoming a science, but they’ve got it backwards. Science is becoming a business. If by business one means a method of making money for both the managers and investors; a way which involves continued self-justification and enhancement. When I worked for an ad agency (back in the Dark Ages), one job was to continue to find new uses for the products we advertised - new ways to make them irresistable. It’s taken science a while, but I think it’s gotten there. I read a NY Times article today quoting someone who apparently is “a leader in the new field of interruption science.” And of course, that person has written a book which they hope will make a lot of money. Interruption Science? Excuse me?? Well, any culture that accepts “shopping therapy” and “massage technicians” is unlikely to notice the corruption of the scientific method by slicing it into ever-thinner specialities, each of which seem licensed to a particular company which of course has perfected some product to make life more complete… you sense cynicism? Okay, read on.
From the NYT article: “The first step is to learn to speak a language of attention.” Oh, yes, that is exactly what we need - a new cacaphony of jargon by which to impress the consumers - ah, public. Ohmygawd… This humble wordsmith strongly suspects this is the science equivalent of the advertising slogan or jingle -- once we have you talking our language, you’re putty in our hands.
“The exciting news is that the enigma of attention has just begun to be mapped, tracked and decoded by neuroscientists who now consider attention to be a trio of skills: focus, awareness and so-called executive attention.” Divide and conquer (government had that one figured out years ago)… take apart the process and attach labels, much like the information technology field has sliced and diced clerical processes so that the poor secretary (oh, sorry - administrative infomatics specialist!) is afraid to move from “input validation” to “data reiteration and consolidation” without checking and rechecking the flowchart. And everyone knows executives never pay attention - that’s what they have slaves - er, secretaries - er, administrative specialists - for.
Another NYT piece on ADD mentions it feeling “like having a bank of tvs in my mind and I don’t have the remote” - which could be why I don’t have an actual tv in the house - it would be superfluous. The gist of the piece is that we are all in danger of losing our minds to distraction. As someone who has had Attention Deficient Disorder all her life, I say, “Welcome to my world.” I’ve always strongly suspected that the Musak slyly introduced, first in elevators and then throughout every public building and store (sometimes a different damn song in each department!) was a ploy to soften our brains with distraction, such that we didn’t actual notice how much we were buying.
Except now with cloned stores full of cloned products, I'm having a hard time tracking which store I'm in. And we've gone from being occasionally interrupted to be brought a Special Media Bulletin to having the pixelated equivalent of a gaggle of teen girls chattering at us on every web page, every text page, and sometimes even in public bathrooms! (The teen girls are there all the time -- the advertising posters and flat-screen tvs are the newcomers.)Move over, Ring Around the Collar, Housitosis, and Feminine Itch. Now that they've given us Distraction, they're gonna make us pay to get rid of it.
Saturday, January 12, 2008
I have not lost my mind... I know exactly where I left it...
It’s possible I evolved into a writer simply because I had to write everything down in order to remember it… I don’t remember, since that was sometime before 4th grade, when I remember getting in big trouble with the nun because I was writing funny limericks to amuse my classmates. During catechism. I also remember getting into trouble in my first job in high school because I hadn’t punched my timecard for the day before and couldn’t remember if I’d actually been at work (had to ask workmates if they‘d seen me).
More recently, I’ve been trying to keep a list of things that needs to be fixed or improved around this house and yard… it’s like an amateur trying to keep up at a hotdog eating contest! They just keep coming!! One of my friends, who’d also bought a fixer-upper, suggested a series of post-it notes on a wall, in order to keep track of everything and also have flexibility in prioritizing. In theory, it’s a wonderful system: I’ve got 30 or so little squares on the side of the fridge, in four columns (contractor work, my construction, painting, sewing & misc) that stretches down to three-year-old level… and I haven’t looked at it in over two weeks. Instead, I look at something askew on the wall, decide it has to be done this minute, and proceed to create a three-week project in the middle of the living room. But wait -- what has this to do with memory? I’d forgotten my topic.
This morning was a great example of memory-in-inaction: as the sun came up, the freezing temps caused the river mist to rise, so that there was a pinkish swirl of fog around the yard, thin enough that the sun was also casting a glow on nearby trees. It seemed just too lovely to resist, so I decided to go for a walk. Simple enough in theory. I gathered my keys, my walking shoes, a heavy sweater, remembered to use the bathroom, remembered to wait in the bathroom for the toilet to stop filling so I could lift the toilet ball and stop it from running indefinitely while I was away thus burning out the well pump, remembered to turn off the lights, remembered to turn off the coffeemaker, got into the coat, hat, scarf and white gloves (white gloves! In the country! but that’s another topic), locked the first of three doors, got through the second door, remembered I’d forgotten the camera, unlocked the first door, retrieved the camera (remembered to look for batteries), back through and locked the three doors (oh, remembered to take the piece of mail that had been mis-delivered), made it all the way up the gravel road to the street, turned toward the hills -- and realized I’d forgotten my glasses!
These are distance glasses, obviously, and without them the hills were a smear that had nothing to do with the mist. As the cold leached into my legs (I’d forgotten long-johns, too) I decided the hell with it, I could take pictures and look at them more clearly later. So I continued the walk, squinting at the frost-covered vines, noting the brown blurs that were some kind of thrush, seeing the white blurs that hopefully were sheep on the hillside and not evidence of cataracts…. not seeing the black ice underfoot until my gait suddenly widened like Paul Bunyan’s! I slowed as quickly as I could, and tested the ground. It had a greasy, slimy feel underneath my track shoes, suggesting a thin coating of ice rather than solid sheets of it. I slowed down and decide that I could walk to the foothills, take my dramatic photos and then come home.
The not-so-brisk walk continued, until I approached the curve, and there was a huge telephone line truck barreling down from the other direction. Did it know about the black ice? Was there enough room in the ditch for me to dive and it to fly over me? I stopped, stepped onto the gravel shoulder so that at least I’d have traction to dive, and waiting to see what might transpire (or expire). The truck eased a bit over to the left as it saw me, and the road beneath held tight as it whipped around at half again the speed limit (on these country roads, the speed limit is considered a sort of competitive minimum). I breathed out, and continued down to the fork in the road, treading carefully since I didn’t have studded tires. When I got to a clear (relatively) view of the foothills, saw that the snow of two days ago had vanished and that the only breathtaking views were hidden by a bank of clouds, I gave it up and turned around. I’d just remembered a pressing engagement with a hot breakfast.
Some friends suggest that I’d do better if I slowed down, and gave memory a chance. Somehow this doesn’t work for me… all I get is slow and fuzzy rather than fast and fuzzy. I just forgot about the fire as I was writing this; the silence tells me that I let it get too forgotten. That is a handicap for an absent-minded writer: I get involved in the writing, then suddenly it’s two hours later and the house is cold, the coffee is cold, and -- mid-brilliance -- I have to jump up and get some warmth into the place. The fire takes hold, and the memory takes flight. It seems an impossible juggling act. Of course, if I’d remembered to chop enough wood so I’d only have to feed the fire (but I do the “gourmet fire”: each piece lovingly hand-cut -- see earlier postings) it’s possible that the thoughts wouldn’t get so far away that they’d be impossible to corral. It’s not like I haven’t tried. I chopped wood for at least 30 minutes yesterday… but fires seem to be like five-year-olds: they know exactly how much you have to feed them, and demand one more than that! Anyway, it’s time to get my wood-chopping clothes on again. Excuse me.
More recently, I’ve been trying to keep a list of things that needs to be fixed or improved around this house and yard… it’s like an amateur trying to keep up at a hotdog eating contest! They just keep coming!! One of my friends, who’d also bought a fixer-upper, suggested a series of post-it notes on a wall, in order to keep track of everything and also have flexibility in prioritizing. In theory, it’s a wonderful system: I’ve got 30 or so little squares on the side of the fridge, in four columns (contractor work, my construction, painting, sewing & misc) that stretches down to three-year-old level… and I haven’t looked at it in over two weeks. Instead, I look at something askew on the wall, decide it has to be done this minute, and proceed to create a three-week project in the middle of the living room. But wait -- what has this to do with memory? I’d forgotten my topic.
This morning was a great example of memory-in-inaction: as the sun came up, the freezing temps caused the river mist to rise, so that there was a pinkish swirl of fog around the yard, thin enough that the sun was also casting a glow on nearby trees. It seemed just too lovely to resist, so I decided to go for a walk. Simple enough in theory. I gathered my keys, my walking shoes, a heavy sweater, remembered to use the bathroom, remembered to wait in the bathroom for the toilet to stop filling so I could lift the toilet ball and stop it from running indefinitely while I was away thus burning out the well pump, remembered to turn off the lights, remembered to turn off the coffeemaker, got into the coat, hat, scarf and white gloves (white gloves! In the country! but that’s another topic), locked the first of three doors, got through the second door, remembered I’d forgotten the camera, unlocked the first door, retrieved the camera (remembered to look for batteries), back through and locked the three doors (oh, remembered to take the piece of mail that had been mis-delivered), made it all the way up the gravel road to the street, turned toward the hills -- and realized I’d forgotten my glasses!
These are distance glasses, obviously, and without them the hills were a smear that had nothing to do with the mist. As the cold leached into my legs (I’d forgotten long-johns, too) I decided the hell with it, I could take pictures and look at them more clearly later. So I continued the walk, squinting at the frost-covered vines, noting the brown blurs that were some kind of thrush, seeing the white blurs that hopefully were sheep on the hillside and not evidence of cataracts…. not seeing the black ice underfoot until my gait suddenly widened like Paul Bunyan’s! I slowed as quickly as I could, and tested the ground. It had a greasy, slimy feel underneath my track shoes, suggesting a thin coating of ice rather than solid sheets of it. I slowed down and decide that I could walk to the foothills, take my dramatic photos and then come home.
The not-so-brisk walk continued, until I approached the curve, and there was a huge telephone line truck barreling down from the other direction. Did it know about the black ice? Was there enough room in the ditch for me to dive and it to fly over me? I stopped, stepped onto the gravel shoulder so that at least I’d have traction to dive, and waiting to see what might transpire (or expire). The truck eased a bit over to the left as it saw me, and the road beneath held tight as it whipped around at half again the speed limit (on these country roads, the speed limit is considered a sort of competitive minimum). I breathed out, and continued down to the fork in the road, treading carefully since I didn’t have studded tires. When I got to a clear (relatively) view of the foothills, saw that the snow of two days ago had vanished and that the only breathtaking views were hidden by a bank of clouds, I gave it up and turned around. I’d just remembered a pressing engagement with a hot breakfast.
Some friends suggest that I’d do better if I slowed down, and gave memory a chance. Somehow this doesn’t work for me… all I get is slow and fuzzy rather than fast and fuzzy. I just forgot about the fire as I was writing this; the silence tells me that I let it get too forgotten. That is a handicap for an absent-minded writer: I get involved in the writing, then suddenly it’s two hours later and the house is cold, the coffee is cold, and -- mid-brilliance -- I have to jump up and get some warmth into the place. The fire takes hold, and the memory takes flight. It seems an impossible juggling act. Of course, if I’d remembered to chop enough wood so I’d only have to feed the fire (but I do the “gourmet fire”: each piece lovingly hand-cut -- see earlier postings) it’s possible that the thoughts wouldn’t get so far away that they’d be impossible to corral. It’s not like I haven’t tried. I chopped wood for at least 30 minutes yesterday… but fires seem to be like five-year-olds: they know exactly how much you have to feed them, and demand one more than that! Anyway, it’s time to get my wood-chopping clothes on again. Excuse me.
Sunday, January 6, 2008
It’s in “a better place”
When I was a child and some person or pet died, I was told “They’ve gone to a better place.” I am getting superstitious about all the items that I had -- when I first moved in -- set in “any old place” and then moved “to a better place” once I got a sense of the cupboards, etc. They have vanished as surely as those passed-over pets. And the most frustrating part is that I can recall in detail my decision to move them, and from where -- but before I get to the image of where I moved them to, it “fades to black” as the directors say. The first location is where I look again and again, as if some part of me is expecting that the item -- the jar of garlic salt, for example -- left footprints to the next spot, or I could catch it returning to visit the cumin. I know that if you go to the kitchen for water or something, then forget what you went for, you return to the spot where you first thought of getting it, in order to jog your memory (or if jogging doesn‘t work, beat it around the head and neck).
I have almost gotten to the desperation point -- sticking a Post-it on the place where I move it from, listing the “forwarding address”! Except that I’ve gotten superstitious about forwarding addresses, too: the credit card companies are now telling me my new address is that of my ex-husband… either he’s still claiming me as a dependent (as if it wasn’t the other way around!) or the fundamentalists have infiltrated and divorce is no longer an option on credit reports. Aside: I wish we could organize those damn companies like the “headline news” companies -- have them feeling embarrassed about having outdated information, rather than proud of it.
But back to the missing items. The problem is compounded because I am struggling to get an entire house in shape at once, and therefore I am pulled in a dozen directions, which makes it simpler to stop looking for something and move on to a more do-able task. But then I forget… and I’ll attempt the task again tomorrow, and go through the entire routine again! I’ve posted a list on my fridge, “AWOL: these items are missing and believed to be organizing in secret: bracket for magnifying lamp; other set of tulip curtains… REWARD for capture!” Possibly the gremlins who inhabit the house after I’m asleep will be motivated to nudge them into view.
And perhaps the most frustrating part is that there seemed to be a cosmic mechanism whereby one of a pair could ask, “Have you seen…?” and the object magically appeared, if only to humiliate the asker. Now living alone, I have no one to ask, and before I spend $400 on a pet, I want to be sure the same cosmic mechanism works with dumb animals… but come to think of it, if it worked on my ex… but I don’t want to get back into cleaning up after something, just as a trade-off for a shortcut to locating things. Perhaps there could be a phone number to call? A kind of 911 for missing objects -- you take the cell phone, start wandering the house and call 611... and as soon as you connect to a person, you’d ask and the object would show up. Might help unemployment by giving jobs to those who have a hard time handling actual questions. Heck, it might make a nice after-school solution for grade-schoolers! Even five-year-olds know how to pick up a phone and say “hello”… and that’s all that would be needed.
Meanwhile, I continue to wander around the new house, staring into cupboards and wondering, “Was the wood polish there, or did I dream it?” and, in my eagerness to find the lost items, moving and misplacing a whole new generation of items! At this rate, I will be lost soon myself. (Hint: check under the pile of boxes in the office alcove -- I probably crawled in to hide).
I have almost gotten to the desperation point -- sticking a Post-it on the place where I move it from, listing the “forwarding address”! Except that I’ve gotten superstitious about forwarding addresses, too: the credit card companies are now telling me my new address is that of my ex-husband… either he’s still claiming me as a dependent (as if it wasn’t the other way around!) or the fundamentalists have infiltrated and divorce is no longer an option on credit reports. Aside: I wish we could organize those damn companies like the “headline news” companies -- have them feeling embarrassed about having outdated information, rather than proud of it.
But back to the missing items. The problem is compounded because I am struggling to get an entire house in shape at once, and therefore I am pulled in a dozen directions, which makes it simpler to stop looking for something and move on to a more do-able task. But then I forget… and I’ll attempt the task again tomorrow, and go through the entire routine again! I’ve posted a list on my fridge, “AWOL: these items are missing and believed to be organizing in secret: bracket for magnifying lamp; other set of tulip curtains… REWARD for capture!” Possibly the gremlins who inhabit the house after I’m asleep will be motivated to nudge them into view.
And perhaps the most frustrating part is that there seemed to be a cosmic mechanism whereby one of a pair could ask, “Have you seen…?” and the object magically appeared, if only to humiliate the asker. Now living alone, I have no one to ask, and before I spend $400 on a pet, I want to be sure the same cosmic mechanism works with dumb animals… but come to think of it, if it worked on my ex… but I don’t want to get back into cleaning up after something, just as a trade-off for a shortcut to locating things. Perhaps there could be a phone number to call? A kind of 911 for missing objects -- you take the cell phone, start wandering the house and call 611... and as soon as you connect to a person, you’d ask and the object would show up. Might help unemployment by giving jobs to those who have a hard time handling actual questions. Heck, it might make a nice after-school solution for grade-schoolers! Even five-year-olds know how to pick up a phone and say “hello”… and that’s all that would be needed.
Meanwhile, I continue to wander around the new house, staring into cupboards and wondering, “Was the wood polish there, or did I dream it?” and, in my eagerness to find the lost items, moving and misplacing a whole new generation of items! At this rate, I will be lost soon myself. (Hint: check under the pile of boxes in the office alcove -- I probably crawled in to hide).
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