Wednesday, February 19, 2014

For this invention will produce forgetfulness in the minds of those who learn to use it


source


The language is revealing here. 

I often will say I am “placing a poem in my memory.” But this doesn’t seem quite right. There certainly is a geographic component. However, while my method uses elements of the Method of Loci - indeed, the name of this blog is The Memory Cathedral - it is not critical that I find a place, a topos, for the poem or its parts. 

I also will say I am “committing a poem to memory.” But this feels like I am preparing to murder it or place it in an asylum. 

The Shakespearean “impressing a memory upon the matter of my mind” is evocative and helpful to decode Elizabethan metaphor, but suffers from the limitations of two-dimensionality. I imagine images or words pressed into wax tablets. The same with “imprinting upon my memory” - associations with the letterpress, words hammered into the paper of a page.

To “memorize” conjures up conflating images of Svengali-esque mezmerizing - although the hypnotic element may be helpful. 

I can “store” something in my memory like putting it a mason jar in the root cellar or in a cigar box in the closet. Some Ed Gein or Freudian disconsonant element here. Sherlock Holmes’s notion of storing memories in an attic is here: as one items goes in the front, another falls out of the back . 

I can “retain” a memory like damn holds back the flow of the river to create a reservoir. Evocative and hydraulic but with unfortunate alimentary connotations. See also absorb and digest. 

I like the visceral qualities of apprehend and comprehend - the prehensile tail of the mind securing us to the branches of events - but these terms seem more elements of the process of memorization, of how we reach out to “grasp hold of” what we want to memorize. See also the psychological terms of recall and recognition - what happens after memory. See also re-mind, re-store, and, one of the most mysterious words in the language, re-pre-sent. 

I always get fascinated by those “re-“ prefixes. When I see them before a word, it is like an X on a Pirate’s Map. They mark a mystery and shed light on the nature of memory. This is the language of Lazarus, bringing something back from a previous life. Listen to the past tense here, haunting and with an aura of sadness: Shakespeare’s sonnets re-mind us what it was like to have been in love, but do not re-store us to that state of love, perhaps leading us to re-sent love when we see it so alive in others, but we re-member that love never dies as long as hope re-mains. 

I love the colloquial idea of “learning it by heart.” I overuse this because it speaks most accurately about how it feels to have a poem living within your soul - this emotional component is crucial. 

There is also “nailing it down” which always has me crucifying the poor poem upon the cross. 

I can “fix the poem in my mind.” But as I was raised in Texas, if you are not fixing a car or your hairdo, then you are fixing to go. Sometimes you are even fixing a hole - which is closer to memory than anything. But fixing is a slippery fish of a word - would that it would fix itself - creating more problems in thinking about memory than it solves. 

Of course, much of the difficulty is our lack of self-knowledge about what our memory is and how it works. Most of the time, we do not think about it. A moment of re-flection reveals how bizarre this is. (Memory as a mirror that captures everything it reflects.) We all take memory for granted. Yet, we are composed of memories. All that we know of our self are our memories or our experiences. These should be like treasures that we keep in a sacred chamber, constantly organizing and straightening, dusting and polishing to keep bright. Instead they collect in unorganized heaps and piles  with no rhyme or reason. Spend just a few moments with a person afflicted with Alzheimer’s to see just how important memory is to our sense of who we are. 

The more we think about memory, the more profound it becomes. It is a place, a thing, we, in effect, personify our memory. It is also an act, a process, an exercise, a discipline. It is how we know ourselves and the world around us. 

We are memory. So it is not surprising to find it difficult to define, clustered around with colloquialism and euphemism. It is a mystery that transcends the reach of language. In the end our memories are, sadly all too often, only cheap souvenirs of what we actually experienced and our words for those souvenirs even less. 

Still, what we do remember is beautiful. And to explore one’s memory, to watch how it works, to meditate upon it, to study and train, to seek to improve and enrich one’e memory is one of the true gifts of being human. 

Simply put: this process is education.

My concern over what to call the process of memorizing a poem is equally as simple: I “learn” the poem. 

It is useful to trace the etymological roots of “learn” down  into the rich earth of Old English and Old High German: “the sole of the foot” evolving to “following or finding the track of.” This is catching memory in the act. It is to “follow the path” of the poet as he leads the way through language. Even more, “to track:” to look for marks in the Wilderness, signs that show the way the creature went. By looking at mark and sign, by understanding the words, we follow the poet deep into the poem until we are surrounded in the meaning of the thing, until we “find” the poem. Again those German roots are clutching: “find” comes out of findan, “to come upon.” When we learn a poem, we have memorized it, placed it, committed it to memory, we have found the path into the language, figured out the meaning of the marks there, what the signs of the words signified until we have been led into the clearing where we find the poem itself, the meaning, the truth of the beast. (cf. to be educated, “to be led out of”)

The goal of education, of learning, is knowledge. And to gain knowledge is to increase your understanding and awareness of the world, to be able to more clearly discern what is just and good and beautiful. Socrates: it is not life that is to be chiefly valued, but the Good Life. By such knowledge, we might hope for wisdom. 

I heard, then, that at Naucratis, in Egypt, was one of the ancient gods of that country, the one whose sacred bird is called the ibis, and the name of the god himself was Theuth. He it was who invented numbers and arithmetic and geometry and astronomy, also draughts and dice, and, most important of all, letters.  
Now the king of all Egypt at that time was the god Thamus, who lived in the great city of the upper region, which the Greeks call the Egyptian Thebes, and they call the god himself Ammon. To him came Theuth to show his inventions, saying that they ought to be imparted to the other Egyptians. But Thamus asked what use there was in each, and as Theuth enumerated their uses, expressed praise or blame, according as he approved or disapproved.  
The story goes that Thamus said many things to Theuth in praise or blame of the various arts, which it would take too long to repeat; but when they came to the letters, “This invention, O king,” said Theuth, “will make the Egyptians wiser and will improve their memories; for it is an elixir of memory and wisdom that I have discovered.” 
But Thamus replied, “Most ingenious Theuth, one man has the ability to beget arts, but the ability to judge of their usefulness or harmfulness to their users belongs to another; and now you, who are the father of letters, have been led by your affection to ascribe to them a power the opposite of that which they really possess. For this invention will produce forgetfulness in the minds of those who learn to use it, because they will not practice their memory. Their trust in writing, produced by external characters which are no part of themselves, will discourage the use of their own memory within them. You have invented an elixir not of memory, but of reminding; and you offer your pupils the appearance of wisdom, not true wisdom, for they will read many things without instruction and will therefore seem to know many things, when they are for the most part ignorant and hard to get along with, since they are not wise, but only appear wise. 
- Plato, Phaedrus





Tuesday, February 18, 2014

POESIS 65 WOLF: A Dirge by John Webster






Walking around Padden. Towards evening. Not as many people on the path. Takes about an hour. Just a little over 2.5 miles. This is my primary place to walk and memorize.

I stop by the bridge to record the sound of the water flowing out of the lake, through the concrete dam, into the creek. Like white noise.

Working on three pieces:


John Webster's Dirge:

CALL for the robin-redbreast and the wren,
Since o'er shady groves they hover,
And with leaves and flowers do cover
The friendless bodies of unburied men.
Call unto his funeral dole
The ant, the field-mouse, and the mole,
To rear him hillocks that shall keep him warm,
And (when gay tombs are robb'd) sustain no harm;
But keep the wolf far thence, that 's foe to men,
For with his nails he'll dig them up again.

Initial encounter with Webster was through The Waste Land:

That corpse you planted last year in your garden,
Has it begun to sprout? Will it bloom this year?
Or has the sudden frost disturbed its bed?
Oh keep the Dog far hence, that’s friend to men,
Or with his nails he’ll dig it up again!          75
You! hypocrite lecteur!—mon semblable,—mon frère!”

Note the change from wolf to dog. In the footnotes, this note:

74. Cf. the Dirge in Webster’s White Devil.

Then, Eliot's Whispers of Immortality begins:

WEBSTER was much possessed by death
And saw the skull beneath the skin;
And breastless creatures under ground
Leaned backward with a lipless grin. 
Daffodil bulbs instead of balls     5
Stared from the sockets of the eyes!
He knew that thought clings round dead limbs
Tightening its lusts and luxuries.

Walking through the forest around the lake, repeating that beautiful line:

The friendless bodies of unburied men.

And the ever present wolf. And the echo in Dylan Thomas' "war on the spider and the wren."


Hamlet, Act 5, Scene 1. A Churchyard:

Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him, Horatio: a fellow
of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy: he hath
borne me on his back a thousand times; and now, how
abhorred in my imagination it is! my gorge rims at
it. Here hung those lips that I have kissed I know
not how oft. Where be your gibes now? your
gambols? your songs? your flashes of merriment,
that were wont to set the table on a roar? Not one
now, to mock your own grinning? quite chap-fallen?
Now get you to my lady's chamber, and tell her, let
her paint an inch thick, to this favour she must
come; make her laugh at that. Prithee, Horatio, tell
me one thing.

The suicide of David Foster Wallace haunting the second line for a moment.  The archetype of acting: the actor holding the skull. The humor amidst the bones. Phrase: "my gorge rims at it." The vision of kissing the skull. And the image of the thing caked with make-up: who we are. And that last question: what becomes of the ruler of all the world?


Psalm 23, King James Bible:

The LORD is my shepherd; I shall not want. 
He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters. 
He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name's sake. 
Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me. 
Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over. 
Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the LORD for ever.

This quiet piece as I am coming back to the beginning of my walk. Ducks dark on the water. Wondering about a shepherd, tending his herd. Prophecy of Jesus Christ. Puzzling over the translation that has a sheep eating at a table, being anointed with oil and having a cup. And furthermore, being the house of the Lord implied to be a slaughterhouse.  A curious psalm.

All three resonating strangely against each other as the night falls. Dead men unburied in the woods, the skull of a jester, David surrendering to a dark shepherd of a God.

I step towards the ducks to take a photograph. They all swim away from me.









Thursday, February 13, 2014

SCRIPTUM 2 CONSTITUTION: The Preamble





I began memory training in a rather naive, almost unconscious, manner: through music. Of course, when I was young, I learned ABCs from the Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star melody. And that was just how I learned it. There was no question about it being learned without music. And the music is still there, I can hear it under my breath, if I am ever called upon to recite the ABCs (cf. Now I know my CBAs).

When I was in 6th grade, I heard a pop novelty song on the radio, "Life is a Rock but the Radio Rolled Me,"  that fascinated me with its rapid fire recitation of different music groups. I decided I wanted to be able to do that, more to impress my friends than for any other memorable reason. I started to write down all the words, then realized that I had actually almost memorized that song in the process through listening to the song over and over.

Life Is A Rock (But The Radio Rolled Me) 
Paul DiFranco (music) and Norman Dolph (lyrics)

B.B. Bumble and the Stingers, Mott the Hoople, Ray Charles Singers
Lonnie Mack and twangin' Eddy, here's my ring we're goin' steady
Take it easy, take me higher, liar liar, house on fire
Locomotion, Poco, Passion, Deeper Purple, Satisfaction
Baby baby gotta gotta gimme gimme gettin' hotter
Sammy's cookin', Lesley Gore and Ritchie Valens, end of story
Mahavishnu, fujiyama, kama-sutra, rama-lama
Richard Perry, Spector, Barry, Archies, Righteous, Nilsson, Harry
Shimmy shimmy ko-ko bop and Fats is back and Finger Poppin' 
Life is a rock but the radio rolled me
Gotta turn it up louder, so my DJ told me (whoa whoa whoa whoa)
Life is a rock but the radio rolled me
At the end of my rainbow lies a golden oldie 
FM, AM, hits are clickin' while the clock is tock-a-tickin'
Friends and Romans, salutations, Brenda and the Tabulations
Carly Simon, I behold her, Rolling Stones and centerfoldin'
Johnny Cash and Johnny Rivers, can't stop now, I got the shivers
Mungo Jerry, Peter Peter Paul and Paul and Mary Mary
Dr. John the nightly tripper, Doris Day and Jack the Ripper
Gotta go Sir, gotta swelter, Leon Russell, Gimme Shelter
Miracles in smokey places, slide guitars and Fender basses
Mushroom omelet, Bonnie Bramlett, Wilson Pickett, stop and kick it 
Life is a rock but the radio rolled me
Gotta turn it up louder, so my DJ told me (whoa whoa whoa whoa)
Life is a rock but the radio rolled me
At the end of my rainbow lies a golden oldie 
Arthur Janov's primal screamin', Hawkins, Jay and
Dale and Ronnie, Kukla, Fran and Norma Okla
Denver, John and Osmond, Donny
JJ Cale and ZZ Top and LL Bean and De De Dinah
David Bowie, Steely Dan and sing me prouder, CC Rider
Edgar Winter, Joanie Sommers, Osmond Brothers, Johnny Thunders
Eric Clapton, pedal wah-wah, Stephen Foster, do-dah do-dah
Good Vibrations, Help Me Rhonda, Surfer Girl and Little Honda
Tighter, tighter, honey, honey, sugar, sugar, yummy, yummy
CBS and Warner Brothers RCA and all the others 
Life is a rock but the radio rolled me
Gotta turn it up louder, so my DJ told me (whoa whoa whoa whoa)
Life is a rock but the radio rolled me
At the end of my rainbow lies a golden oldie
Listen--remember, they're playing our song!
Rock it, sock it, Alan Freed me, Murray Kaufman, try to leave me
Fish, and Swim, and Boston Monkey,
Make it bad and play it funky.
(Wanna take you higher!)
Freddie King and Albert King And B.B. King and frolicking...

Melody plus rhythm work a magic spell in the brain that facilitates the ability to memorize a text to an extraordinary degree - even with the relatively monotonic delivery in the song.

Another example of monotonic memorization was the Pledge of Allegiance to the Flag - which the entire class had to recite every morning in grade school. Our chorus of uninspired children's voices worked like music to make it so it took nothing to memorize the Pledge. We got so good at it that we could, like most schoolchildren, improvise our own nonsensical punny lyrics in the midst of the recitation.

The Pledge Of Allegiance 
by Francis Bellamy

I pledge allegiance to the Flag 
of the United States of America, 
and to the republic for which it stands, 
one Nation under God, indivisible, 
with liberty and justice for all.

became something like this for me:

The Fudge of a Sneeze Us

I fudge to sneeze us at the rag
of the poonited feces of Americuss
and to the re-dumb-lick which I can’t stand
butt naked under the dog that's invisible
with liver and dust lice for all

I have to admit that I actually thought for many years that the word was "invisible." Because God, as I understood it at the time, was invisible. Still every morning I would stand with the chorus and recite The Pledge. To this day, I still "know it by heart."

In 7th grade government class we had to be able to recite the Preamble to the Constitution from memory. And I just couldn't get it. Partly because the language was difficult for me: "establish Justice," "insure Tranquility," "provide Defense," "ordain this Constitution." I mean, the word "insure" was connected to my mother's car, in case she got into a wreck. I couldn't connect this to Tranquility, which was associated with a tranquilizer dart to me at the time. 


We the People of the United States, 
in Order to form a more perfect Union, 
establish Justice, insure domestic Tranquility, 
provide for the common defense, promote the general Welfare, 
and secure the Blessings of Liberty 
to ourselves and our Posterity, 
do ordain and establish 
this Constitution for the United States of America.


And even though I had memorized the much more word-dense song with music the previous year, this piece of ponderous and serious prose seemed distant from any sort of musical adaptation. It was as if each word was on a bland block of wood. As I tried to memorize each phrase, I placed each block, one at a time, into a my "Box of Memory." Then I would concentrate on each word-block inside the box, saying the phrase it combined together to make a larger single block. Once I felt I the phrase had become its own unified block, I would move it into a larger box, deeper in my brain. I then began the process over with the next set of words that made up a phrase.

Most people try to memorize like this: analytically, dividing a thing into smaller elements. Each element is disconnected from the rest and the work is to burn it into the memory with brute repetition.

We. 
The. 
People. 
Of.
The. 
United.
States.

This is the most difficult way to memorize a sentence made of words. They might as well be in any order: states we united the people of the. And to emphasize the point, they might was well be numbers for letters: 2 3 6 2 3 6 6. There is no attempt to understand the connection between the "word-blocks." And with no connection, no understanding, no meaning, no music, it is extremely difficult to get the brain to hold on to it, to place it within the interior world of your mind and be able to remember it, to recognize and recall it whenever you need it.

Through the ages of evolution, the most successful species are those that have the best survival strategies. For humans, being able to remember and learn and not repeat past mistakes has obviously been critical. Furthermore, being able to invent sounds and symbols to express thought; being able to communicate it to another human being is what defines us as humans.

The cave entrance surrounded with bones might attract a curious exploration by some unfortunate early hominid. Then a bear comes out and eats him alive. And his friend, Grog, in the woods watches, helpless and in horror, as screams pierce his hearing and this huge monstrous bear rips his friend's flesh from his bones for what seems hours.

I like to imagine Grog inventing a sound that meant: "Do not go anywhere near that cave that is surrounded by bones!" Let's say that sound was: "Dah An Grrr!" And this sound is very meaningful to Grog. He saw what happened to his friend. And whenever Grog is hunting with anyone, he points out the cave and bones and says: 'Dah An Grrr!" And over time, everyone learns this sound and what it means regarding the cave. Then, eventually, some bright hominid philosopher figures he can also use that sound to point to the place where the beast will drop out of the tree and devour you. Soon enough, a small child is getting to close to the fire and it's mother cries: "Da an ger! Danger!"

Now, of course, this is a cartoonish example. But the point is that language stores meaningful memories. Each of us doesn't have to experience the occasion for the memory that the word contains - although with words like beautiful and love and ecstasy, we most certainly would like to.

Language is a mnemonic device for experience.

The word stands in stead of, in the place of, the thing, the experience. And Lo! Abstraction and the number 1 and everything from Shakespeare to 6 million people exterminated.

What is most amazing and relevant here is that we have the ability, through imagination and association, to make something memorable that the brain would not normally want to hang on to. The current record holder for memorizing the number of digits of Pi is Mr. Chao Lu from China who spent 24 hours and 4 minutes reciting Pi to 67,890 places. I can imagine a world where Mr. Chao Lu’s memory skills might be advantageous to survival, but it is certainly not this one. 

We remember what is most meaningful to our life. All too often, it is difficult for us to understand what is most meaningful. Through the practice of memory, our own meaning becomes more transparent to us, and we attain a vision into an inner world that was hidden to us before. 

So there I was in 7th grade with my word-blocks and my boxes of memory, trying to puzzle out all the pieces. And I was going about it in the most wrongheaded manner possible. Despite Mrs. McBride's best intentions, I didn't know what The Preamble meant. Why was I learning this? I didn't understand what I was doing. Every word seemed disconnected and meaningless. I was bored and uninterested.

My brain was waiting for a bear to come out of the cave or some sort of exciting mental event that meant it really needed to hold on to this information. My attention was like a dog waiting for me to throw the ball. But, contrary to most dogs, it needed to know that what I was shaking in front of it was worth going after. I needed to make it understand what The Preamble was saying was important; that it was, in fact, vital for me as a person living in the United States to have this preamble committed to memory. As it was, I sat there cutting the ball into little pieces and dropping them in a hole to be forgotten.

I eventually did memorize The Preamble. But not because of its intrinsic meaning. I memorized it because if I didn't, Mrs. McBride would give me a low grade and my parents would get mad at me. I memorized it because that was what all of us in the class had to do to get a good grade. We memorized it because we were told it was important. However, we didn't learned why it was important.

I loved Mrs. McBride and don't hold her to any fault at all. She was doing her job. Who amongst us would be able to explain the meaning of The Preamble to the Constitution and the rationale for memorizing it to a group of hormone addled, easily distracted 7th graders?

But this was the Great Failure of my education - from grade school up through the highest levels of the University: I was conditioned like Pavlov's Dog to learn what the teachers and professors taught, to memorize when needed. But I was rarely, if ever, taught to learn why. Why were the subjects I was being taught important or vital to my survival?

Why did what I was being "taught to learn" matter?



source


For example, what is so important about The Preamble to the Constitution of the United States?

Go back to Grog's sense of the word "Danger!" Anyone can see how important it is to understand and remember this word "Danger!" To not do so is to wander into a cave and be eaten alive by a bear. You feel it down to your bones, how important it is to know about "Danger!" You learn this word really quick and so vividly that it probably never will be forgotten.

These days are not so simple. And words now get chewed over in our speaking like a piece of meat that is never swallowed. Few words have the visceral immediacy of Grog's "Dah An Grrr!"

But in the right context, even the tiredest, most chewed-over, and bland word is given new life. Stare into another's face and quietly say, "I love you." Even if you don't, this most overused word in the English Language will get you a laugh or a slap or punch in the face. Context. Meaning.

I recently returned to The Preamble, to refresh my memory of it. And almost 40 years later, Mrs. McBride's sweet soul will be happy to know that I finally understand why we were taught to memorize it.


Christian Monotone


When I was younger, I had no idea what oppression and intolerance were. I came from a broken family and my mother worked as a teacher to support us. We were barely Middle Class. But this was Middle Class in the United States in the mid-1970s. We were white, lived in a nice rented house, had good food, plenty of clothes, a car, a television. Life was good. We had more freedom that we knew what to do with. A happy white middle class broken family in late 20th century U.S.A.. Life was good - even if I didn't know it was.

Being a regular kid, I didn't necessarily care much at the time, but I knew I could believe in anything. I had a vague sense of freedom to believe in whatever I wanted and the freedom to live according to those beliefs - as long as I didn't break any laws. I knew I had the freedom to say or write almost anything. I knew people could print and publish whatever they wanted - as long as it wasn't lies that would damage another person. I grew up with a vague awareness of these freedoms. I took it for granted. That was just how the world was, the way the world should be. I couldn't imagine a better way to live, to be... governed.

But the older I got, the more I became aware that most places aren't like the United States I grew up in - even the United States. I read about terrible oppression and intolerance towards others. In fact, the more I read, the more then entire history of man was long series of brutal acts of inhumanity and horror against other peoples. The 20th century alone revealed itself to be a slaughterhouse of horror.




source



When I was in 7th grade, struggling to care in the least bit about a preamble to a government document, millions were being killed in the Cambodian Killing Fields for what they believed in. Naturally, Mrs. McBride did not mention this to us. Although, I often wonder what such an education would have wrought as far as my character.

What is vivid today about The Preamble and the Constitution is how radical they are. They literally are revolutionary documents. They are a collection of words, sentences, statements which attempt to define and establish a new world. They are the embodiments of language that is attempting to ordain and establish a new way of living, new freedoms from the oppressions of past governance and freedoms for a future governance.



source


The Preamble, in it’s dignified and stately way, might be seen (cartoonishly), to be like Grog and all of his hominid family and friends standing out in front of the bear’s cave and yelling: I believe in these freedoms, and the way of life that insures and promotes them and I will no longer live in fear of you! 

We the People

The very first words conjure the defiant image of a group standing together, as a source of unified power, all with a common aim:

In order to form a more perfect union

More perfect understood not as an attempt of modify an absolute adjective, but as an admission that what brings the People together can be made better. This is what we are trying to do, to make better world to live in.

Establish justice

Justice as harmony. As the invisible hand that maintains equality. The impartial balance that makes certain the individual and the family, the family and the neighbors, the neighbors and the city, the city and the state, the state and the country, the country and the world - everything and all radiating foremost from the integrity and well-being of the individual - all of these elements must be in harmony to establish the conditions of Justice.

Insure domestic tranquility

The logic of the narrative flows from the essential happiness of each human, being who has come together with others to make a People, to create a better world, to make the union of themselves, their families, communities, cities and states all in harmony, to establish Justice, and then, from this Just ground, from these principles of harmony here established, to guarantee this harmony or peace, and protect this tranquility, this quietness of things.

Provide for the common defense

Once we, the People, have created this more perfect, just and tranquil place, we will protect and defend it against those forces which would threaten to harm or ruin it in any way.

Promote the general welfare

Only after we have provided to means to defend our way of life against external threats, can we begin to encourage and promote the well-being, the health and happiness, of ourselves, the People,

And secure the Blessings of Liberty

Above everything, we have come together, we are going through all of this and creating this new world, to make certain, always and forever, that we never lose our freedoms. To have the greatest freedom for the most people is at the essential core of all of why we have come together  to form this more perfect union. By doing this, we enter into a relationship with each other as unique entities and a relationship with that which our union has created, a whole which is greater than any single part, through which we are able to secure, to hold fast to, the natural benefits, grace and blessings of the greater idea of freedom, Liberty.

To ourselves and our Posterity

We, naturally, want this now and we also want, as stated above, to make sure our children and their children and so on also have these same blessings of Liberty.

Do ordain

We place these ideas, these statements of our most essential beliefs, in this way as they are related to each other, each arising out of and dependent upon the others, showing what is most important to how we wish to live our lives in this union.

and establish

These beliefs are cut into stone within our hearts. They are what we found our being upon, the foundation, the firmament upon which all building must rest. We set forth these beliefs in this manner.

this Constitution for the United States of America.

We are creating a new thing, a new body, a new world made up of these beliefs, whose construction, whose constitution, is to be made up of these elements and what follows.

Note the etymological echo inside of pre-amble: of a little walk, an amble, around the whole of the matter, like walking around a park, before going inside. Gives you an overall sense of where and what you are about to enter into.






Oddly, I was never into School House Rock. I think it was great. It just never appealed to me. Maybe it was just not the kind of song I wanted to remember The Preamble to. However, like the ABCs, I know many people that learned The Preamble in this way.

When I returned to The Preamble this year, even though I had memorized it well enough to recite it passingly in 7th grade, there were only fragments that remained. Something like this:

We the People of the United States of America... 
in order to... more perfect union... promote domestic tranquility
...establish Justice... blessings of liberty... 
establish this Constitution of the United States of America

The narrative was riddled with holes, added words, phrases in the wrong place, substitutions. I found this interesting.

In 1885, Hermann Ebbinghaus explored the nature of forgetting. Using himself as a subject, he was able to plot a forgetting curve showing the decay of memory over time. A typical un-extraordinary memory tends to become diminished by half in about 5 to 7 days. However, he also found that the memory is not entirely forgotten, a trace of it remains. He suggested what is now almost commonplace: to have a better memory, you must create a better memory representation through mnemonic techniques and you must refresh the memory through repetition.

There are 52 words in the Preamble. I could recall about 32 words. Better than half and beating the Ebbinghaus Curve by far. Keep in mind, the Preamble sort of percolates through culture via political speeches, films and TV. You hear "more perfect union," "domestic tranquility" often as stock phrases of patriotism. And the sort of Homeric epithets of "Constitution of the United States of America" require no effort to bring to mind. So I would say my actual recall was closer to 19 words. Around 37%.

What I was interested in was what was in those lacuna of the Preamble and why my brain had consigned it to some interior oblivion. The most glaring error and, for some reason, difficult to correct was the substitution in the last phrase of "of" for "for." Not Constitution of the United States but Constitution for the United States. The first is what is used all the time, the latter is, mostly,  confined to the Preamble.

Here is what I left out (missing words in bold) or added [in brackets] or substituted* or in wrong postion#:

We the People of the United States [of America], 
in Order to form a more perfect Union, 
establish# Justice#, insure domestic# Tranquility, 
provide for the common defense, promote the general Welfare
and secure the Blessings of Liberty 
to ourselves and our Posterity, 
do ordain and establish 
this Constitution for* the United States of America.

What my brain held on to, with a surprising tenacity of prehension, was pretty much what was to be expected: the basic meaning the message. Kudos to Mrs. McBride.

The subject: We

Prepositional phrase: in order to...(followed by a cascading series of secondary verbs)

Secondary verbs: form, establish, insure, provide, promote, secure,

Primary verbs: ordain and establish - the latter doing most of the work

Secondary objects:  union, justice, tranquility, defense, welfare, blessings

Primary object: this Constitution for the United States of America


The essence of the Preamble is:

We establish this Constitution.


Thankfully, my memory held on to that much and, although it is not much to look at, it is the essence of the thing. But what I left out was the beauty of it. The language that makes it "sing." Because there is a music here, a prose which aspires towards poetry and, when spoken, has a pleasing harmony. The cadences of the Preamble proceed with gravity and grace, layering upon each other like musical motifs, building to a inexorable conclusion that is underwritten not only with intellectual logic, but resonates with a deep emotional sense of rightness .


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The Preamble is not the greatest passage of prose in human history, but it is one of them. And while it has an inherent beauty and force, it is the context of its creation that lifts it into greatness.

The overall effect, combined with  the Declaration of Independence and the Constitution and the Bill of Rights is symphonic. Beethoven's 5th, an embodiment of the sonata form, is the archetype.

The Declaration then becomes the 1st movement: Allegro Con Brio: fast, quick and bright with spirit, "fate knocking on the door," introducing the theme. Independence. Freedom from.

Tearing down the statue of King George III and melting it into musket balls.



Pulling Down the Statue of King George III, c. 1859
Johannes Adam Simon Oertel



The Preamble is the 2nd movement: Andante con Moto: the strong and unwavering procession forward, the statement of the theme, the establishment of the exposition. After freedom from, there must be freedom for.

Bartholdi's Statue of Liberty, moving forward, broken chains at her feet, in one hand, the torch of enlightenment, in the other, the Book of the Law. Freedom balanced with responsibility.




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The Constitution is the 3rd movement: Scherzo. Allegro: the main play, matter, quick and bright, the statement of the supreme law of the United States. After the why (freedom from) of the Declaration and what (freedom for) of the Preamble, the Constitution is the how (to make these laws).

The allegorical figure of Justice, seated and blindfolded, with scales and sword.



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The Bill of Rights is the 4th movement: Allegro: also quick and bright, the coda ("tail"), an extension of the main exposition, the Constitution, specific guarantees of individual rights and statements of limitations of the power of government.

A citizen of the United States with a foot on a king's crown, holding the Magna Carta as a weapon in his left hand and the Constitution open for all to read in the right hand.



The Law by Edwin Blashfield


Music and memory. The two examples at the beginning of this essay were chosen specifically becasue they were not particularly musical.

"Life is a Rock" (and, yes, I do wish that at that early and impressionable age I had chosen a more profound piece to imprint upon my memory), this litany of performers, groups and bands is delivered just slightly above a monotone. While the piece has rhythm and rhyme, there is no distinctive melody to it. Still I found it was relatively easy to memorize.

The Pledge of Allegiance also has a meter and a flow but no melody. Daily choral recitation, even with the cobwebs of sleep still in my head, imprinted it deep in my memory.

So the Preamble. You can put melody to it and end up with something like Schoolhouse Rock. But I don't want to have that strained and mundane melody always tied to my memory of the Preamble. I would be disinclined from ever taking it down from its place in the interior library of my memory and having that feverish song dance and jerk in my mind like a jack-in-the-box opening again and again. Certainly, adding melody to a passage of prose helps, almost magically, to memorize it. But care must be taken to not ruin the piece by combining it with trite and banal music.

With a lists such as the ABCs, the Presidents, signs of the Zodiac, elements in the periodic table, collections of poems and prose, use whatever melody you want. The list is just an indexing mechanism, a catalog, to order and organize placement of memory names, triggers, latches, keys to open doors to the actual body and matter of the main memory. There is no inherent music to a list or index.

However, there is music to poetry and, to a lesser extent, prose. Beautiful language has a musical quality to it, the recitation of the language is often melodious and unfolds with an undeniable harmony.

Poetry, naturally, is closer to music than prose. But many passages of prose, through the elevated beauty of the language, approach, sometimes even surpass, the qualities normally associated with poetry.

The Preamble to the Constitution is work of prose that most certainly aspires to poetry. It has a cadence and flow that make it musical. The presentation and exposition of the theme, with its cascading series of clauses and drumming patriotic finale create in the mind a harmonious unfolding of powerful intention and resonance with the most essential qualities of being human.

When I was younger, and struggled in the same humorous manner as Barney Fife to memorize the Preamble, I was unable to hear the inner music of the language. I also was, unfortunately, not interested in the historical context. No matter how hard Mrs. McBride tried to light the fire of learning in my young mind through her teaching, my lack of interest kept everything within my imagination waterlogged with boredom.

Out of fear of getting a bad grade, I forced myself to memorize the Preamble, like having my parents make me eat a plate of some vegetable I didn't like. I fought it the entire time with a fake smile on my face, tasting nothing, wanting only the throw it all back up as soon as possible.

Music is a mystery. Its meaning transcends all human being. Levi-Strauss believed melody to be the highest expression of human being. Where language hits a wall, music goes on for what seems ever.

Where words fail, music endures. Everyone, even "the savage beasts," finds solace and peace in music. When we listen to music, we engage our brains in most meaningful of all acts.

It is no wonder of it then: our brains remember music, this most meaningful experience, to an extraordinary and profound degree. We can hear a song once and repeat it note for note. We can recall as song after many years of not hearing it - and usually the surrounding world where we first heard it. We can recognize a song after only a few notes. This is an amazing ability. It is magical, weird and uncanny. Our natural ability to remember music is a gift, a mystery, without which, life would be a mistake.

My primary technique of memorization is to uncover the music within what I am trying to remember. The idea of uncovering is key. Poetry is easy. Prose is more difficult, but the music is there - as I hope I have shown with the Preamble.

Once you are able to uncover the music in a piece, memorization is no longer a difficult and laborious exercise, instead it becomes a joyful listening, a surrendering of self to profound meaning and a resonating harmonization of being to a transcendent beauty.





Thursday, February 6, 2014

Three Criteria for the Memorization of a Poem


Space Object Box: "Little Bear, etc."
Joseph Cornell
Solomon R. Guggenheim Museum

"The cathedrals of today, wherever they are, are very unimposing, very unnoticeable. The boxes, the collages, the home movies of Joseph Cornell are the invisible cathedrals of our age. That is, they are almost invisible, as are all the best things that man can still find today: They are almost invisible, unless you look for them." 
- Jonas Mekas

It is important to ask yourself why you want to memorize a poem. To what end? 

I mean, what good does it do to know a poem by heart? To be able to close your eyes and conjure the poem back into the world whenever you wish?

I imagine those who might find the occasion to stand up in front of others and recite poetry. 

And I recommend this for everyone to try at least once. When I was first starting to memorize, I was fortunate enough to have been involved with a local poetry night. Every Monday, I stood up in front of several dozen people and recited a poem - almost always from memory. It is an entirely different animal to “speak a poem” from memory in the privacy of your own car or while walking dully along to “performing a poem” from memory before a gathering of expectant faces ready to hang upon your every stutter and stammer and misspoken word. 

There is a primal quality to performance where a deeper portion of the self is called upon to capture the imagination and attention of the group to resonate as an actor, a storyteller, a singer, a preacher, poet, rhapsode, dancer, witch-doctor, seer and shaman. It is an ancient drama. To stand in the circle outside of the fire and become possessed. It has been said that we call down the God not to ride them but to have the God ride us. 

Beyond the desire or need to perform a poem, what further rationale is there for memorizing a poem?

Before the mass production of books, McLuhan’s extensions of memory, the memorization of poems, drama, prose was a natural necessary and unquestioned aspect of any rudimentary education, essential in Classical Culture. In the Renaissance, it found new life in alchemical and esoteric pursuits. Matthew Arnold’s ideas of culture as the core European Humanism relied upon the “non-mechanical” memorization of great literature. Of course, memorization has always been crucial to the great religious traditions (pre-literate and post): Hinduism, Buddhism, Judaism, etc.. 

But what now? After the storm, stress and technological revolutions of the 20th century, why memorize a poem? 

“At hand and by heart” now is the smart phone with all of the world’s knowledge. What need is there to memorize? 

Before everything, you must ask yourself why. 

Even though I flirted with the practice of memory all of my life, it wasn’t until certain family difficulties that I became serious about it. Initially, and still always as a grim and goading impetus, it was to set up structures within my mind that would serve as alarms to mental degeneration. 

However, it has become much more than that. Few activities in my life have been as transformative and catalyzing as the active practice of memory. I cannot recommend it more highly.

Whatever you determine you reasons to be, if you are serious, I here offer a few suggestions.


Camillo's Memory Theater 


"By the ancients thus it was custom that those same philosophers who taught and showed to dear disciples profound doctrines, having clearly declared them, would cover them with fables, so that the covers they made would keep the doctrines hidden: so that they would not be profaned."
- Giulio Camillo


What you want to look for in a poem are, at least, three essential criteria - each of them threaded through with the other:


1. A poem that you love. 

It MUST be a poem that you love, that you are passionate about. You have to lust after the poem.  

Anything that you want to memorize is a something that you burn to take into your most interior self, to weave it into the fabric of our being. 

To memorize something, to say it over and over, to recreate it within you, is to fall "under the spell" of the thing, it is to make it a part of the most internal, sacred and private language that you use to speak to yourself only. It will become part of the ur-language that constructs the process of your thinking. 

When you are searching for a text to memorize, look for that which you adore, that which excites you like nothing else, the want for another being's words inside your mind to transform your inner world. 

The beautiful quality about building your interior library is that there is such a wealth of poems, prayers, prose, speeches, laments, passages to choose from. 

Often I have a sense of being in Aladdin's Cave - such a plentitude of riches. 

Mostly, it is an issue of the moment. A phrase, a passage, speaks to me, to deeper part of me, and I want it. I desire it. The sexual implications are apt. There is a desire to merge one's self with the innermost aspects of being / thoughts of another, to work towards an ecstasy of understanding, Keat’s “negative capacity,” where the poem seems to live, gain new life, within you. The Holy Fire. Your mind bursts into flame. This is what you are looking for when you are looking for a poem to memorize. 


The Mnemosyne Atlas - Aby Warburg


[The Mnemosyne Atlas] is the strangest of art-historical artefacts: the kaleidoscopic image of the scholar’s enigmatic reordering of a lifetime’s meditation on the image. The Atlas, wrote Warburg, was ‘a ghost story for adults’: it invents a kind of phantomic science of the image, a ghost dance in which the most resonant gestures and expressions its creator had discovered in the course of his career return with a spooky insistence, suddenly cast into wholly new relationships. 
http://www.frieze.com/issue/article/collected_works/



2. A poem that bears repeated recitation. 

There are many that meet the first requirement simply out of a basic love for language, but fail to meet the second. 

You know that you will be saying, thinking, every word of the poem thousands and thousands of times. The poem will become a mantra, a prayer, and it’s language, every word, will be chewed over in your saying until it has no essence left and is just a flavorless cud ruminating in your mouth. It becomes a tired and a worn-out thing. 

But then, alchemical change occurs. You re-member, re-assemble, re-create the poem word by word: every article, noun, verb, adjective and adverb is no longer called into question. You know it by heart. 

And the meaning of it, the why of it, is born again with you as you speak the poem new from the heart of memory. It is a first rising sun to you, dawning for the first time, as you say it. It is, without exaggeration, a mystical experience. The poem, once again, quietly surpasses you.

To be able to place your mind, just for the 14 lines of a sonnet, into the starlike cauldron of Shakespeare, to have those words arise from the depths of your own being, as if they are your own, is the very definition of ecstasy. It is one of the most redemptive exercises for the sadness of this world that I know. 

On the other hand, as much as I enjoy (love seems odd here) much of, say, Sylvia Plath's poetry, I have no desire to memorize it (Poor Sylvia). I don't want to recite those words over and over again. The same could be said for Anne Sexton, Theodore Roethke, e. e. cummings and William Carlos Williams. My respect for their poetry is undiminished. 

However, I could, and most likely will, memorize Shakespeare and Rilke until my dying day. Also, Yeats, Hopkins, Dickinson, Blake and Dylan Thomas. These are strange and idiosyncratic symptoms of my own history. 

You will find your own stars that you prefer to orbit as you add more poems to your interior library.

The Memory Machine is Libeskind's interpretation of Giulio Camillo's "Memory Theatre," a 16th-century structure where, upon entering, a person's mind would be filled and inscribed with a knowledge of the universe. Some historians have argued that Camillo's idea influenced the construction of Shakespeare's Globe Theatre, which may or may not have been why Libeskind based his design on a period stage set apparatus. 
- Do Daniel Libeskind's Awesome Machines Mean I Have To Stop Hating His Work?


3. A poem must continually unfold its meaning. 

I consider this the quality that makes one poem great and another poem just remarkable. 

One of the qualities of beauty is strangeness and depth. With a good poem, you can "see the bottom." With a great poem, it is like looking into the ocean.

Shakespeare is obviously a deep and ever revealing ocean. He just unfolds over and over. It is like memorizing a fractal. The sonnets come immediately to mind. Soliloquies of Hamlet, Richard III, Lear and Prospero. Hopkins even through the delightful hedges of his rhyming wordplay always unfolds newly. Blake and Dickinson take the breath away with the depth of their Zen simplicity. Keats. Lorca. Yeats. Auden.

As a result of the practice of memory, I  believe it is often intially difficult to judge the depth of the poem from the "outside," that is, from an unmemorized position. 

There have been occasions where I have spent fair time committing a poem to memory then sensing, suddenly and not without a measure of sadness, it was “done.” 

I could “see around it” and all the way down the bottom of it. What was mysterious and attractive before is suddenly revealed as a thing somewhat banal and deceptively simple. Usually, for me, it is a clever piece or wit, shimmering with a gnomic simplicity, often times a joke in disguise. 

I am hesitant to cite example for fear of showing my hand, my guilty pleasures in the well-turned phrase, but Yeat’s Drinking Song, Crane’s In the Desert, much of Frost, bits and pieces of Auden. I made the mistake a lot at first, being greedy in Aladdin’s Cave, but have found over time I have become more discriminating in this regard. 

On the other hand, as I am working on this at the moment, Hopkins' sonnet, Carrion Comfort, with its halting negating language, words doubled, flipped and turned inside out until they form into a deeply meditative prayer of endurance, is a wonderful poem to memorize. 

I would go so far as to say, that it is only through memorizing this poem - being able to recite it to oneself and listen to the words recreated within you - that the inner meanings of the poem are revealed.


Not, I'll not, carrion comfort, Despair, not feast on thee;
Not untwist — slack they may be — these last strands of man
In me ór, most weary, cry I can no more. I can;
Can something, hope, wish day come, not choose not to be.
But ah, but O thou terrible, why wouldst thou rude on me
Thy wring-world right foot rock? lay a lionlimb against me? scan
With darksome devouring eyes my bruisèd bones? and fan,
O in turns of tempest, me heaped there; me frantic to avoid thee and flee?

Why? That my chaff might fly; my grain lie, sheer and clear.
Nay in all that toil, that coil, since (seems) I kissed the rod,
Hand rather, my heart lo! lapped strength, stole joy, would laugh, chéer.
Cheer whom though? the hero whose heaven-handling flung me, fóot tród
Me? or me that fought him? O which one? is it each one? That night, that year
Of now done darkness I wretch lay wrestling with (my God!) my God.





Monday, February 3, 2014

Introduction: When the Canaries Stop Singing


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Around Thanksgiving of 2012, we had to place my mother into intensive care in Anacortes, Washington. She was suffering from acute anxiety over not being able to breathe. She was later diagnosed with Chronic Obstructive Pulmonary Disease (COPD). In subsequent examinations regarding her increased anxiety and unusual behavior, she was diagnosed with Alzheimer's Disease. Not long after this, around the beginning of 2013, my step-father began to exhibit symptoms of early dementia. In March of 2013, he was also diagnosed with Alzheimer's.

In January of 2013, my sister and I were making almost daily trips from our home in Bellingham to their house in Anacortes. The travel time, excepting traffic, was about 50 minutes each way. While I was driving, I had plenty of time to reflect upon the what was happening to my mother and step-father. Mostly, I thought about memory. Once I became aware they both were suffering from dementia, I began to see how much compensating they had been doing for the other. Many odd and unusual behaviors that I was formerly willing to attribute to unique personality and being "set in their ways," I now saw as covering and coping behaviors for gradual memory decay. They were, for the most part, unaware of it. They had isolated themselves away from any form of real society outside of each other, engaging in a sort folie a deux sustained by being comfortably retired in a luxury house and a good retirement income. From the outside looking in, they just seemed to be an old, slightly eccentric, married couple.

However, now, after the diagnosis and spending more time with them, I saw how much I had refused to notice because of a pre-conceived idea of who they were, as individuals, as a couple and as my parents. My sister and I quickly understood how much worse they were than we had realized - or wanted to realize. My mother was in worse shape than my step-father. But each of them needed daily care-givers and were no longer able to manage their lives on their own.

I want to emphasize this moment where you realize one or both of your parents can no longer take care of themselves, not due to any physical impairment but to a mental one. Specifically, when they can not remember to take care of themselves. The child becomes the adult to the parent. Psychologically, it is fascinating to note how natural it is to want the parent to be the one in charge, to ask for counsel and advice, to still teach and offer guidance. Even when the parent is obviously unable to understand even the most basic problems, a part of the child in you will keep interacting with the parent in this way.

It is all sad and it is all too common. Over 5 million people in the U.S. have Alzheimer's. Over 26 million people worldwide, with estimate that 1 out of every 85 people in the world will suffer from Alzheimer's by 2050. While certainly not the most painful way to die, it is very sad and difficult for the families and caregivers. The body remains unharmed as the brain slowly degenerates. Everyday you see the person you love, your mother, your father, your wife or husband, lose their mind, forget who they are, forget who you are. And they, for the most part, are unaware of it.

When I was in elementary school, around 6th grade, we had to read Flowers for Algernon by Daniel Keyes. It had been adapted in 1968 into a decent movie, lamentable titled, Charly. The film stared Cliff Robertson, who I always liked after because of it. I saw the movie on TV not long after I had read the book. It made quite an impression on me.

The story is told first-person through a series of journal entries by Charlie Gordon who has an IQ of 68. He is chosen to participate in an experiment to increase his intelligence. A mouse named Algernon also undergoes the procedure. The experiment is successful. Charlie's IQ increases rapidly up to 185. The form and content of the journal entries are consistent with Charlie's increased intelligence. Charlie studies the research and methods of the experiment that increased his and Algernon's intelligence and determines that the effect will decay and return him to his original state. Not long after, Algernon, the mouse, begins to behave erratically and dies. We follow Charlie's progress and eventual decline through his own words:

“October 7 - Strauss tried to see me again this morning, but I wouldn't open the door. I want to be left to myself now. It's a strange sensation to pick up a book you read and enjoyed just a few months ago and discover you don't remember it. I recall how wonderful I thought Milton was. When I picked up Paradise Lost I could only remember it was about Adam and Eve and the Tree of Knowledge, but now I couldn't make sense of it. ”  [...]
“October 19 - Motor activity impaired. I keep tripping and dropping things. At first I didn't think it was me. I thought she was changing things around. The wastebasket was in my way, and so were the chairs, and I thought she had moved them. Now I realize my coordination is bad. I have to move slowly to get things right. And it's increasingly difficult to type. Why do I keep blaming Alice? And why doesn't she argue? That irritates me even more because I see the pity in her face. My only pleasure now is the TV set. I spend most of the day watching the quiz programs, the old movies, the soap operas, and even the kiddie shows and cartoons. And then I can't bring myself to turn it off. Late at night there are the old movies, the horror pictures, the late show, and the late-late show, and even the little sermon before the channel signs off for the night, and the "StarSpangled Banner" with the flag waving in the background, and finally the channel test pattern that stares back at me through the little square window with its unclosing eye.... Why am I always looking at life through a window? And after it's all over I'm sick with myself because there is so little time left for me to read and write and think, and because I should know better than to drug my mind with this dishonest stuff that's aimed at the child in me. ” 

This could easily be a diary written by someone suffering from Alzheimer's Disease. What was most unsettling for me, even after first reading it when I was young, was to realize that at the end, Charlie has forgotten what happened to him. There is a vague sense of knowing something in the past but due to his diminished intelligence, his inability retain what he once knew in his memory, he is forever lost to himself.

I was bearing witness to this process on a daily basis. It was a sad thing to see. The only positive aspect about it was what I call the "Algernon Effect:" the person losing their mind and memory does not realize entirely what is happening to them.

Much of the time, especially as the disease progresses, they are just sort of zoned out in the present moment. It is tempting to believe there is a Buddhistic Zen-like quality to their state of mind, but the harsh truth is they are just being increasingly emptied of any presence at all, becoming like a seashell. You would like to believe you hear the ocean inside of them, but in reality it is just a vast nothingness.

 In addition to my mother and step-father being afflicted with a progressively degenerative form of dementia, within six months of my mother's diagnosis, all four of their miniature schnauzers died from neurological disorders. Granted, they were all old. But the slumbering presence and seemingly capriciously debilitating effects of diseases of the brain was suddenly much on my mind.

Thus my hour-long drives, sometimes twice a day, down to Anacortes to take care of my parents were filled with worrying ruminations over the nature of memory, what makes up the essence of our self, how can we remember some things and forget others and was it possible for a 50-year old man to train his memory in such a way that he would be able to detect the first signs of decay and deterioration.

I wanted to place memory structures within myself that would serve the same purpose as the canaries once did in the coal mines. When the canaries stopped singing and died, the miners knew there was poison gas in the air and they had to get out of the mine as quickly as possible. So with these memory structures, when they "stopped singing," when I was no longer able to remember them correctly, I would know it was time to "get out of my mind." I certainly did not want to end up in the same situation as my parents.

So I started memorizing, rather, I started remembering. Remembering songs. Over the years, I have written a lot of songs. I never made any conscious effort to memorize the song. I just kept practicing it until I knew it. A sort of naive form of memorization. Something about the combination of music and words made it easier to recall the song. This is a well known mnemonic technique. (cf: Music and word recall: The strength of familiar melodies as mnemonic devices and The Effect of Musical Mnemonics and Musical Training on Word Recall.) Like many, I learned my ABCs to the tune of Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star.

As I drove back and forth from Bellingham to Anacortes each day, I would sing songs to myself. Most that I had written but also songs of others. After a while, I would simply attempt to recite them without music. It took a bit more effort. But once I could recite a song without singing it, it felt as though I could remember it more comprehensively, that I had mastered it, removed it from its easy mnemonic context and still been able to hold it together. I though a lot about this. What exactly was I doing when I was remembering? Where was it coming from?

Occasionally, there would be a song that I had forgotten some word or phrase of. I would poke around in my mind aggressively, shining the beam of my attention into the darkness, like searching with a flashlight for an old toy lost in a dark attic. It wouldn't come. So I would start singing another song and out of the blue the lost words would just be there. What part of my mind was responsible for that? And where were the lost words hidden. These questions obsessed me.

I began to look forward to the drives as an uninterrupted occasion for me to work on my memory. I had to drive down to Seattle one night to pick someone up at SeaTac, about two and half hours away, and I was happily surprised that I was able to sing and recite songs the entire way with no repeats. I began to wonder what the limits were to my memory. Clearly, I could remember much more than I thought I could. And I wondered why it had taken my 50 years to ever consider exercising my memory.

I honestly felt like I had discovered a new toy, rather a new playground, a huge and immense world to explore. It seems silly and glib to write. There is much more to be written later. But I realized it wasn't just me. As a culture we have increasingly externalized ourselves into the world. McLuhan's Extensions of Man. We have extended memory into the spoken word, then the written word, visual imagery of film and television and now computers and the Internet. Smart phone are ubiquitous "at our fingers" repositories for all of our memories. No one needs to remember anything anymore.

In 1956, George Miller wrote his influential paper The Magical Number Seven, Plus or Minus Two: Some Limits on Our Capacity for Processing Information which is cited here in reference to the question on Quora: Why did Bell Labs create phone numbers of 7 digits - 10 digits? by Brian Roemmele:

Professor Miller research and other confirming studies along with the significant internal research performed at Bell Laboratories confirmed the limitations we all have on memory and how we use a process of “Chunking” data to <= 7 digits to deal with the limitations of the Human Brain. This lead directly to the number format of NNN-NNNN using a dash to break the numbers in to smaller Chunks. There are some technical reasons that the first chunk is 3 digits, however there was internal research at Bell Laboratories that found that in Chunking, it is best to start with no more then 3 digits and then if there needs to be a 4 digit chunk, it should be the last in the sequence. As the area code became more prominent with direct dialing the 3 digit pattern fit nearly perfectly. Additionally, later studies showed that people would memorize common area codes and pull that from a seemingly separate part of memory when matching it up was a 7 digit phone number.

I did a cursory search for research attempting to evaluate current capacities for memorization, but found nothing specific. My suspicion is that Miller's magic number seven might be too high for the atrophied memories of our times. It is worth bookmarking here Nicolas Carr's article for the Atlantic: Is Google Making Us Stupid? and the later book, The Shallows: What the Internet is Doing to Our Brains.

Remembering my songs seemed easy. I had already memorized them at some point. So what I was doing was refreshing my recall. But these were not new memories. And I had created the songs - for the most part. There were more than a few occasions where I wondered if I had remembered the right word or phrase. And then I laughed because I could make it whatever phrase that seemed best to me. It was my song, after all.

In ABC: The Alphabetizaton of the Popular Mind by Ivan Illich and Barry Sanders, a profound and poetic exploration of the effect of literacy upon culture, they speak of the fluidity of oral traditions, rhapsodes reciting thousands of lines of an epic poem have no strict administrator checking them against a written canon. Memory flows through them, essentially unchanged, but with slight adornments and substitutions that mark the identity of the teller. Authority, authorship, was always in the telling.

Thanks to research done in the 1930s by this young Harvard classicist (Milman Perry) and his assistant Albert Lord, it is now clear that a purely oral tradition knows no division between recollecting and doing. The pre-alphabetic bard does not, like his medieval counterpart, draw on a storehouse of memories in order to compose a poem. Rather, he dips into a grab bag of phrases and adjectives and, driven by the rhythms of the lyre, spins the yarn of a tale.

As much as this fascinated me, I believed that it would expose me to The Algernon Effect, in that I might not realize when my re-membering of a song would begin to drift away from the original. It was only natural, at that point, to begin memorizing poems. I set the task before myself of memorizing ten poems or poetic passages. Each, I figured, would serve me well as a "canary in the mine" of my mind.

I had, of course, during the procedure of my education been called upon to memorize poems. And had even spent some time memorizing a handful classic poems - not that I knew any of them "by heart" anymore.

Beyond that, I wanted a challenge. I wanted something new, that I was unfamiliar with. A strange poem, perhaps in another language. I wanted to test my newfound skills of memorization. I wanted to see if I was even able to remember something that was "difficult."

One night, I was researching slight of hand tricks and found myself watching a video of Ricky Jay performing card tricks. In the middle of the performance, he stops to recite a poem by Francios Villon: Straight Tip to All Cross Coves. This was what I was looking for. Riddled with contingent, modal and tactical difficulties (cf. Steiner), I felt a sort of hunger to attempt to memorize it, to be able to always have it "at hand," to know it "by heart."




I wonder about writing all of this down. I imagine another version of Charlie Gordon's journal of decay. Of course I know that Alzheimer's isn't hereditary. At 51 years old, with my current weight and blood pressure, I am much more likely to suffer a stroke or a heart attack than to live long enough to exhibit signs of dementia. I also am under no illusions as to my intellect. I know that I am slightly above normal, but not exceptionally so.

However, for the last year or so, I have done more to improve and deepen my intellect than I have since I was first learning things anew as a child. That is how it feels. I also will add in the spirit of honest disclosure that I was exceptionally well educated. I had the privilege of attending private high-schools and spent many years at college - although I never graduated. I also have traveled extensively and can get around competently in Spanish and French. I write all this to show there really isn't anything exceptional or extraordinary about me in any way - intellectually, I should say. I was also never taught to use my memory - beyond simple mnemonics for planets or musical scales. Psychologically, I have my strengths and weaknesses, my obsessions and fears, that are perhaps somewhat unique. Spiritually, I am abnormal but not any augmented sense.

My point is this: my memory is the same as yours. I would even go so far as to say that after a lifetime of drinking and drugs, yours might be better.

So what? So over the last year, I have memorized over 70 poems - ranging from sonnets and odes to Shakespearian soliloquies, to Poe's The Raven. I have memorized poems in Spanish, French, Latin and German. In addition, I have memorized several dozen prose passages, speeches, sermons, from the Gettysburg Address to Sinners at the Hand of an Angry God. I have memorized lists of the Zodiac, the Tarot, the Hebrew alphabet, US Presidents, Shakespeare's Plays, Dante's Inferno and many others. I have memorized hundreds of songs, my own and others. I have, much to my amazement, memorized more things than I have ever thought I could ever memorize. And I know - and I write this with great confidence - that I have only scratched the surface.

Memory is not like the Sherlock Holmesian analogy of the attic, where a new piece of furniture pushed in the front pushes an old piece out the back. Rather is it holographic. The more you add to it, the greater the overall resolution of your self becomes. The more things I commit to memory, the easier it become to memorize. The capacity of memory seems near infinite. There are days where I walk along with Shakespeare and Poe and Lorca and Yeats, their words singing within me, combining with each other, echoing, resonating, revealing. And I wonder why it took me so long to enjoy the pleasure of memory. Throughout all that I am going through right now, it is the greatest gift I know and it is only within memory that I find any solace at all for the sorrow and suffering of this life.

[Bibliographic addenedum: I have been fascinated, slightly obsessed, with tales of increased intelligence all of my life. Amy Wallace's excellent book, The Prodigy: A Biography of William James Sidis, bears striking similarities to Flowers for Algernon. Much of my love of Colin Wilson is rooted in his belief in the "hidden powers of consciousness" perhaps best exemplified in his two Lovecraftian novels: The Mind Parasites and The Philosopher's Stone. Augmented powers thread through all of my favorite Science Fiction from Asimov's Foundation Series with Hari Seldon through Heinlein's Stranger in a Stranger Land with Valentine Michael Smith to William Gibson's Neuromancer. There is also a curious sub-genre of savants with books such as Extraordinary People: Understanding Savant Syndrome to Ricky Jay's Learned Pigs and Fireproof Women.]