Dear Memory: Photo not available

Once, I forgot where I parked my car.  At LAX.

That was a problem.

If you’ve ever seen the parking structures at LAX you understand.  They form a sort of 3-D, M.C. Escher, house-of-mirrors kind of nightmare.

Sure, those configurations are commonplace at airports these days, but at that time I was a girl from Oklahoma who had only lived in Long Beach a few months.  I still couldn’t figure out how the forty-minute drive to the airport on the 405 Freeway north had me heading straight into the setting sun.  It went against the laws of nature. 

That was disconcerting enough, but on that particular day I was doing a favor for a friend.  I was picking up her friend, whom I’d never met.  My friend had an emergency and couldn’t meet her friend at the airport.

So I said sure.  I’ll go. 

Back in those days – Yes!  Tell us Granny Plath!  Tell us how it was back in the olden days!  
OK Dearies – Just imagine – You could walk right into the airport and directly up to the gate to meet your friends and loved ones as they exited their planes! 

No bare feet on cold tile.  No full-body public X-ray with arms in the air.  It was lovely. 

So I had a description of my friend’s friend.  She had a description of me.  We found each other and introduced ourselves and negotiated baggage claim and headed out to the parking garage.

Remember?  This is a story about finding one’s car in the maze of a concrete Overlook Hotel. 

And my memory failed me. 

Suffice it to say that it took a good long while to find the correct level in that labyrinth – H!  I’ve never forgotten it since.  And the right section – 8!  Appropriate somehow.   

And that was before wheels on luggage.  Before it was cool to travel light. 

By the time we found the car, I don’t think my friend’s friend liked me very much.

I haven’t seen her since.  The honest truth is, I don’t even remember who I was helping out that day!  Her name is a vapor.  I can’t call her face to mind at all. 

But I will never forget H-8 and the mortification.  That is the lasting memory lo! these many years later.

Memory experts say that if you attach emotion to a memory, or action to an image, it’s much more likely to stay with you.   

Which brings me to some recent mind games:

Each year I sit on an interview panel at my old school.  It’s a privilege to spend time with staff members whom I loved and respected during my tenure there.  So when the day is over, I send each one a little note of appreciation.

With note cards in hand, I began recreating my experience and writing, first to the teacher who sat on my right.  Then to the one on my left. 

Next I wrote to the Career Center Coordinator who sat across from me.  And finally, I prepared to write to the person next to her.

Who was a woman.  Pretty sure.  Past that, I had nothing.

OK.  Dark hair?

It’s not that I saw her face but didn’t remember her name.  Nope.  All I could see was a gray silhouette on white background like someone on LinkedIn who didn’t provide a profile picture.

Not to worry, I told myself.  It’ll come to me. 

I busied myself with the minutia of the day:  dishes, dusting – no memory.  Writing, walking – no idea who the heck I worked with for seven years and sat across the table from for three hours YESTERDAY! 

Retracing my steps in the aisles of my mind, pulling out the drawers of the card catalog…I’ve got to update this system!  How can I express my gratitude?!  Who was that?? 

No matter how hard I squinted my eyes, or how many Zen strategies I employed, she always came back:  Photo not available.

Finally, in a panic, I called the Career Center Coordinator.  “Who WAS that person sitting next to you?” I shrieked.  “Who was she?  Who was she??!”

“Oh!  Of course,” I said, regaining my composure.  “I remember now.  Thanks.”


That’s the kind of emotion that solidifies a memory.

Handwriting on the Cyberspace Wall

It worries me that consumers are complaining about the newest iPad.  Reports are that it heats up, becoming too warm to handle after prolonged use. 

That’s right.  Too warm to handle.  My fragile constitution cannot withstand the warmth.  Help me!  Help me!  It’s so warm!  I can hardly fling another bird. 

That’s what we’re coming to!  What would John Wayne think?  Or Amelia Earhart? 

It puts me in mind of “Wall-E,” the futuristic 2008 Academy Award winner for Best Animated feature.  Finding earth’s environment toxic from the overflowing refuse of hyper-consumerism, humans have abandoned the planet.  Once evacuated, they live out their years aboard the star liner Axiom, circling, waiting for their home to become habitable again.   

They’ve been in outer space so long, with every need attended to, that they never stand upright, never leave their recliners.  Meals and drinks and light and darkness, entertainment, all provided without exertion or effort.  

They’re obese, of course, but in a cute way.  They all have such amiable dispositions after all.  Nothing ever becomes too warm, so what’s to get upset about?   

As the story unfolds, we see an x-ray of the captain of the ship and discover that his bones, like those of all the recumbent residents of the Axiom, have become disjointed and float like so many pretzels suspended in jell-o.  All this the result of generations of life reliant on the screen. 

Recoiling from the warmth of the new iPad, we’re taking another step toward this dystopian utopia, you and I.  It’s all good and all bad all at the same time.  It pampers us.  It gives us everything we ask for and takes away everything we need, step by imperceptible step. 

Oh yes, the iPad is too warm.  How will we ever Draw Something?  

Our chubbiness is not so cute as it is in the movies; but we press on, exerting less, demanding more.  Next logical increment – elevate our preoccupation!  That’s right; make it respectable:  Video games aren’t just games any more.  We'll call them art!  And right on cue, according to CBS News/Sunday Morning, the newest exhibit at the Smithsonian’s American Art Museum is "The Art of Video Games." 

The Smithsonian!  Case closed.  No argument.  Video games are art. 

“I’m engaged in a cultural expression, Honey.” 

Forget about the decline of humankind, I can tell you it won’t play well with my husband.  He already exhibits a persistent skepticism about how I spend my afternoons.  “Retirement, schmretirement!” he’s been known to mutter, shaking his head, carrying dishes to the sink in demonstration of how he does everything around here. 

For that reason I quit Bejeweled cold turkey.  He came down the hall and found me too many times, mesmerized, mindlessly matching purple gems .  My credibility sagged.  I had to reestablish trust.  But now I have the Smithsonian on my side. 

Our national archive extolls video games’ images as reminiscent of Japanese woodcuts and compares them to the work of M.C. Escher.  Why I’m deepening my appreciation of fine art by staring at it on the screen, moving my mouse over it, cursing at it, throwing up my hands in triumph!   

And it's not just how video games look that makes them works of art, says the venerable museum; it's also how they engage the imagination and stimulate players to think about what moves to make.  

Yeah!  That’s it!  Imagination!  Moves!  I hardly even notice that my joints are stiffening and my back is curved.

"[Video games] can help us find connections with deeper questions we may have inside ourselves," says game developer Chris Melissinos, who curated the show.  Huh?  Deeper questions?  I must be playing the wrong game.   

"We're able to create worlds and environments that just don't exist in the real world.  We're able to open our imagination, and it's boundless, it's limitless.”  Melissinos again.  I think he’s feeling pretty important.  Curator and Champion Rationalizer. 

Pandering to our passive personalities it’s certain they’ll develop an iPad potholder.  They’ll create an award for the most Asteroids smashed, or Grand Autos stolen.  Partying with Mario will be tantamount to an inaugural ball at the White House. 

We’ll lean in closer.  And when it hurts our eyes, they’ll make that OK too.  No need for distance vision any more anyway.  Crow’s feet will be the craze.  

Mark my words.  And pack for a long trip.