Anytime (I am there) and other dying wishes

The memory of a song that I’d heard arose in my mind a few days ago. Or maybe it was a few weeks ago. WTF. It arose, OK?

I didn’t remember the name of the song. I vaguely remembered the subject. I did remember that it was part of a musical performance that Speakeasy Theatre in Boston had done when Dana was Production Stage Manager.

I remembered a song about Steve Buschemi and a Thanksgiving Day celebration. I remembered that it had something to do with 9/11.

Never fear. My Google-fu is strong, and shortly I’d found the name of the production: “Elegies, a song cycle”) by William Finn, and of course, someone had uploaded the soundtrack to YouTube.

The song is Anytime (I Am There), and the link is to the Genius.com lyrics site.

The song is from the perspective of someone who died when one of the towers collapsed on 9/11. Even though they are gone, they’ll still be there.

I love the song, and I want to share it with you (and Future Me, so it doesn’t get lost again.)

I plan to organize my memorial service. Knowing me, I’ll procrastinate too long. So if I don’t get around to it, and you are involved in setting it up: please note: I want this played.

I also want Amazing Grace by Dropkick Murphys.

Below are links Any Time on YouTube, the lyrics to Any Time, and following that, a live performance and the album track for Amazing Grace.

These are my dying wishes because all my wishes are dying wishes because I’m dying—though very slowly, and not completing the process for many years.

``

```
Any time you laugh
Any time you cry
Any time you hear a sound
When you’re on the grass
Lying on the ground
Any time you wash your hands
I’ll be around

I’ll be there on the baseball field
Though I’m well concealed
I’ll be out there cheering
I’ll be there in the books you read
It is guaranteed
I’m not disappearing fast
Anytime
No, not any time

And I am there each morning
I am there each fall
I am present without warning
And I’m watching it all
Yes I’m watching it all
Oh oh oh oh oh

And I am there in music
I am there in sky
I don’t why this thing did happen
But this much is clear
Anytime or anywhere
I am there

Any time you pray
Any time you fight
Any time you’ve gained a pound
Any time it’s day
Any time it’s night
Any time the earth moves
I’ll be around

I’ll be there in the maple trees
I’m a summer breeze
On a perfect evening
I’ll be there when you celebrate
When the world seems great
I’ll be waiting by your side
Anytime
Yes! Anytime

And I am there each morning
I am there each fall
I present without warning
And I’m watching it all
Yes I’m watching it all
Oh oh oh oh

And I am there in flowers
I am there in snow
I don’t know why this thing happened
But this much is clear
Any time you cry
Any time you sing
For anything
I’ll be there
Each morning
I’ll be there each fall
I don’t why this thing happened
But this much is clear

Be aware
I am there
I am there
I am there
I am there

I am there
I am there
I am there
`

​

Memento, Redux

Memento, redux

This morning I decided to start my day by reading one of my old blog posts. It led me to recover one of the most important things that I’ve learned.

And that I had forgotten.

Again.

SRSLY. WTF!

Remember Leonard Shelby, the guy in the movie Memento?). Leonard can’t make new long term memories. Short term memories fade after about fifteen minutes, so Leonard remembers important things by taking Polaroids and writing notes on the back.

He remembers the most important things by getting them tattoed on his chest.

I’ve got what seems to be a good memory. Still, I’m always astonished to discover what I’ve forgotten——including things that I’ve flagged as important, important, do no forget!! Like this post, titled Memento because it’s all about me having the same problem as poor Leonard.

I sort of remembered I’d written a post about Memento.

And I sort of remembered that it was about trying to remember.

But holy shit! I’d forgotten all the important parts.

In that post, I recorded the fact that I had forgotten what I described as “the best thing that I’d ever written.” I’d written it thirteen days earlier. And I’ve forgotten it!

Seriously?

In my Memento post, I said:

I had forgotten what I had decided was my reason for existence.

I had forgotten what I had identified as one of the most important things I had learned.

Seriously?

So I went and read that blog post.

And the Memento post was right. It was one of the best things I’d ever written.

And I had forgotten it.

It was an essential and valuable piece of hard-won knowledge, and I had fucking forgotten it.

By the time I finished reading it, I was crying.

Sacrifice

The post I had forgotten was about sacrifice.

It was about taking cold showers as a symbolic act. Those showers are uncomfortable, but they wake me up. And that’s how I want to spend my days: awake, not in a dream.

In a sense that made sense, the self that steps into the shower dies, and a new self is born and steps out.

It’s a daily voluntary sacrifice for a greater good.

Thank you, December 18. 2018 Pre-Shower Past Me.

You knowingly sacrificed yourself so that Post-Shower Past Me might live.

And eventually, so that I might arrive.

Thank you to all the other Past Me’s who died so that Present Me might live.

Thank you, December 29, 2018 Past Me, who said:

I had been living my life as though that realization—the realization that the purpose of my life—to make a better Future Me—had never happened. Instead, I made shittier Future Me’s. Until today.

Thank you for articulating a simple purpose for my life: to make a Better Future Me (BFM.)

A Past Me stopped writing a draft of this post, went to the shower, turned on the water, cold, and for the first time in months, stepped in.

I woke up.

And here I am.

How am I going to remember BFM?

Memento had the answer. And I had the answer, too. Only I forgot it.

June 30, 2017, from my Hangouts Channel with Elsa: I had the answer.

It worked for a while.

So here’s today’s reminder:

Now, where can I get a real tattoo? Or a better fake?

And what do I want it to say?

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​

Keep the Fun in Funeral

Today Bobbi’s writing group got together in memory of one of their group who—to paraphrase Monty Python ——had died, passed on, was no more, ceased to be, expired and gone to meet her maker, was a stiff, bereft of life, resting in peace, pushing up the daisies, kicked the bucket, shuffled off this mortal coil, run down the curtain and joined the choir invisible.

Bobbi asked me to read the group the obituary my brother and I had written for my Dad.

“Do you have it?” She asked.

“Hey, I’ll Google it,” I said. I remembered I’d found an archive of the obit in an online archive of the local newpaper: the Panama City Bugle or Star or Beach Buggy.

So I queried Google, and Google found this memorial website—which I’d forgotten that I’d created.

Thanks to Bobbi for reminding me to look. And holy shit, thank you, Google, for finding it!

The link goes to a page containing series of articles themed on my Dad’s passing. It features the entire obit, pretty much as Mark and I wrote it, duplicated below for people who can’t be bothered clicking links.

168 Year Old Bastard Dies

Not part of the obit, here are the family in-jokes behind the headline.

First, Dad was a preemie. In those days, preemies died. Early, I mean. So they didn’t register his birth. Apparently, you could, in those days.

About six months after he was born, they figured that he wasn’t going to die anytime soon. So they registered his birth.

So Dad had two birthdays a year: the day he was born, and the day his birth was registered. We celebrated both. 84 years (per the birth registration date) times two birthdays a year means he died after his 168th birthday.

Get it?

Second, Dad’s mother was forced into a marriage in Hungary, left on her wedding night, and emigrated to the US. She married Dad’s father but had not divorced her Hungarian husband.


Hence the marriage was illegal.


Hence Dad was a bastard.


But a nice one.

Milton Arthur Wolf passed away at his new home in Panama City, Florida, on Friday, February 4th, when the muse really left him for good. Milton and his wife Judith had moved to Panama City from Baldwin, New York, where they had spent the past forty-seven years. The move and his passing appear unrelated. Milton had celebrated his 168th birthday when he died.
Milton Wolf was a graduate of the Pratt Institute. He founded three companies and recently received an honorary degree as Doctor of Scatology. He was also a founding member of the American Cacological Society and its first President.

He is survived by his wife, Judith, and by his three children: Michael Wolf (his favorite son) of Hopkinton, MA, Dr. Mark Wolf, MD (his best son) of Panama City, FL, and Zorina Worthman-Wolf (his flower child) of Palo Alto, CA (where else?) He is also survived by six grandchildren, a rumored great-grandchild, numerous friends and relatives, and everyone else who isn’t currently dead.

His ashes will be interred at Econfina, the Wolf family farm on February 12th, following a memorial boat ride and barbecue. The family requests that in lieu of flowers that contributions be sent in small unmarked bills to the surviving members of the family.

Milton Wolf was a wonderful man with a great sense of humor. He would have written something like this obituary himself if he had thought of it in time or hadn’t been dead when his kids thought of it. Instead, it was written by his two sons Michael Wolf, Founder, Publisher and Editor-In-Chief of The Wolf Report, and Mark Wolf, who is not Founder, Publisher, and Editor-In-Chief of The Wolf Report, but does hysterectomy much better than Michael does. Editorial assistance was provided by Judith Wolf. (Judith, don’t encourage them!!!)

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​

Predicting recall

It’s not a shock that I can’t remember everything. No one can. And I’ve got so much crammed into my brain that I can’t hope to remember it all.

OK, I can hope.

There’s plenty of stuff that I know that I once knew and predict I can’t recall. There’s other stuff that I won’t be surprised if I can’t bring back.

But it’s surprising when I predict that I can remember something and I can’t.

Who shot John Kennedy?

A while ago I remember not remembering the name of the guy who shot John Kennedy.

I would have predicted that I knew it. But I didn’t. Surprise!

How could I forget his name?

Everybody knows his name. It was…

There was a hole in my memory.

I could see all around it, but not see into it.

I knew that Jack Ruby had shot the guy. And the guy’s name was…

empty

I remembered the film that was taken by Leon? (actually Abraham) Zapruder of Kennedy being shot by…

What was his name?

I remembered Jim Garrison in Louisiana who had started an investigation into the conspiracy that had led to Kennedy being shot by some other guys and…what was the guy’s name again?

I knew he’d married a Russian woman, and his name was…

I could see the rifle he’d used and his name was…

And the shot that killed Kennedy had been fired from the Texas Book Depository by… who was he?

I had a hole in my memory that was precisely the size of the guy’s name.

Making the unconscious conscious

How do things become conscious? It’s a mystery. They just appear. Or not.

I believe that the things that I think I know and can’t recall are there in the unconscious. The information has not been lost. It’s just that the mysterious and automatic system that causes the answer to rise to consciousness can’t talk loud enough for me to hear.

Recite the alphabet

When I can’t remember a name I start reciting the alphabet, and listening carefully. That’s what I did.

A. B. C. D. E. F. G. H. I. J. K. L…..

It was L. I think it was L.

L what?

LA? LE? LE. LE!

It’s LEE.

Lee something.

Lee what?

Then out of the darkness comes: “Lee Harvey Oswald.”

I had a Lee Harvey Oswald sized hole in my brain.

Last night’s failure

Last night, I tried to remember the name of the guy who helps me with projects around the house.

His name was—fuck! How could I forget his name?

I hadn’t thought about Lee Harvey Oswald for years. But just a couple of months ago I’d been working with…what the fuck is his name?

I know I know this guy’s name.

So I go to the alphabet and listen carefully.

A. B. C. D. E. F. G. H. I. J. “Maybe.” something says.

K. L. M. “Yeah,” something says.”M. It’s M.”

So I sit with M for a while, and “Matt” appears in consciousness. And as soon as it appears, I know that it. It’s Matt. First name, Matt. Second name?

Fuck!

I could probably figure it out. Maybe J is a clue. Maybe not.

But it’s late, and I don’t want to play games.

I use one of my backup memory systems. I’ve texted him. I open the text app on my phone, choose Search, and type M A T. “Matt Jackson” pops up.

​

Losing my memory

I’ve been losing my memory at an accelerating pace. I find it interesting. Maybe one day I will find it disturbing, or even frightening.

But not yet.

Thanks, good genes.

When I first knew I was losing it

I remember the first time that I realized I was losing my memory.

I didn’t just forget a fact.

I realized I’d lost an entire category of cognitive ability.

Until that day, I would not have used a phrase like “I don’t know if I’ve told you this” because I knew. (Or I believed that I knew).

After I learned that some people don’t remember everything that I’ve said (I did remember) I might say “I don’t know if you remember when I told you this, but…” And if they didn’t remember I might add, helpfully, “Don’t you remember? We were…” and I’d describe the circumstances.

Until that day, if you told me something you’d already told me I’d interrupt and say: “You told me that before” and I might add, helpfully, “Don’t you remember? We were…” and describe the circumstances.

I never had an eidetic memory.

I was jealous of people who did.

But my memory was pretty darned good.

I couldn’t remember something just by reading or hearing. But I could get close.

And if I wrote it down, longhand, I’d remember it in detail.

Anyway, that’s what I remember I could do.

Then one day I realized that I couldn’t do that anymore.

I was around 12.

Or so I remember.

​

A series of strokes

What’s the difference between losing a memory because of a stroke and losing one because of “natural forgetfulness?” Or because of senility—which is what you call an old person’s natural forgetfulness.

Not much difference, I say.

The result is the same. A lost memory is a lost memory.

What about losing a memory because the memory was never recorded?

What about a memory that was recorded—say on paper—and now can’t be found?

They’re all pretty much the same—as bad as having a stroke.

I’m tired of having strokes.

What I want to remember

I don’t want to forget anything that I think is—well, memorable.

That’s what memorable is.

Sometimes I don’t realize that I want to remember it until later—when I’ve already forgotten it. It’s retroactively memorable.

But unless an experience is—well, unforgettable—I will forget. And I will forget even some things that I deem unforgettable at the time.

It’s a series of strokes.

I can’t trust my brain to remember. It’s a convenient, large-capacity, low cost, low resolution, low-quality memory device.

It fails to remember things that I want to remember. It says it’s remembered things, and what it says it remembered turns out to be wrong.

It remembers things that I don’t care about. It remembers things that I’d be happy to forget.

Memories on paper last longer than memories in the brain, and they are more reliable. But paper is inconvenient. You have to carry it around, and then you have to store it somewhere. It takes time to record a memory on paper. Paper gets lost. And there’s no good way to search through paper to find the memory that you want.

“You can’t grep dead trees,” the old saying goes.

Memories in photographs last longer than memories in the brain. They used to require a camera. And film. And a photo lab. And time to see if a photo was any good. And a place to store the pictures. And there’s no good way to search through a pile of photographs to find the memory that you want.

“You can’t grep dead pixels” the new saying goes.

But the digital camera in my phone is almost as handy as my brain. True, I have to make an effort, but it’s relatively small. And digital is forever.

Post it or put in in a Doc, and it’s forever enough. Nowadays there’s always a device within reach—not as handy as a brain, but nearly so.

And search is easy.

The only problem now is sifting through multiple digital stashes to find the one where you put that memory.

And you’ve got to make sure you capture the memory.

What I’d like

When I find something that I want to remember, I’d like to capture it effortlessly. And then I’d like to find it again easily.

That applies to web pages, ideas, and the world. I might need slightly different tools for each.

For web pages, I’d like to have a responsive web clipper that I can use to select text on a page, then have it capture the text and the URL that the text came from.

For the world, I’d like an always-ready, small camera and an easy, unobtrusive way to have it take a picture when I want. No clumsy camera. No dragging out my cell phone. Just tap and take, and automatically upload.

For books, I’d like to take pictures that are automatically OCRd. For ebooks, a simple sharing interface.

For ideas, a simple way to jot down a notion that doesn’t get in the way of what I’m doing.

What I’ve got

What I’ve got isn’t bad. It’s just that my chair in the sky isn’t as comfortable as I would like. So I’m going to design the solution I want for memory.

This post is long enough, so I’ll post about my solution later—possibly after I’ve got one.

​

Arising and passing away down memory lane

A few morninga ago, I sat down, closed my eyes and intended that my mind present me with scenes from my past. After a very short delay, my mind complied. Things that matched what I had intended appeared in conciousness.

Good mind! Here, have some gratitude. You deserve it!

What appears

When I ask for memories like this, I often get flashbulb memories — vivid pictures with no sound and no motion. I see things, rarely people. I’m no longer in the present. I’m back there and then. But something closer to there and then than to here and now.

The first thing that appears in consciousness is the apartment building on Crown Street in Brooklyn. It’s where I first lived after coming home from Unity Hospital, where people have told me that I was born. I don’t remember it.

The apartment was on the corner of Nostrand Avenue and Crown. A blurry picture of the front of the building appears. I Google. A less blurry, more recent picture arises.

A picture of a hallway and a door that I think is the one to our apartment appears.

Images of a temple that is down the street appear. One image is from the outside, another is from inside. It was an orthodox temple. The men sat on the ground floor and the women in the balcony. I’m on the ground floor, with people around me. I can’t see the people, but I know they are there.

Images of the barber shop of “Pete the Barber’s.” appear. It was down the street, on Nostrand Avenue. Black barber chairs and mirrors inside appear. The barber pole in front of the shop appears. The kind face of a man who might be Pete appears.

An image of being in a car at night riding along under sodium vapor lamps lighting the Belt Parkway appears.

Thank you, mind.

Images of our second home, 350 East 55th Street Brooklyn, appear. Flashbulb memories of the kitchen appear. Jelly is being made from grapes from the back yard.

An image of the living room with tapestries or a mural on the wall appears.

An image of the driveway appears. That’s all.

The fact that it was a duplex, shotgun style, appears.

The name of the family that lived next door arises. The name was Komenko. His name was Rudy. Hers was Manya. One or both had acne or smallpox scars. These ideas and images arise.

An image of Uncle Morton’s house in Riverhead appears followed by one of Uncle Joseph’s home in Patchogue.

An image of our family driving through the Lincoln Tunnel early in the morning on our way down to Washington to see Uncle pick and Aunt Henrietta appears. Looking at the image, I can see the tunnel outside the car. I don’t see anyone people inside. The memory that we used to get up at 5 AM to get through New York before traffic arises.

And passes away.

Flashbulb memories of a trip we took to Maimi one year arise and pass away.

Images of Wolfies, a restaurant where we went for breakfast arise and pass away.

An image of the all-you-can-eat place where we went for lunch sometimes arises and passes away.

An image of the front of the hotel where we stayed arises. It’s blue. The image passes away.

An image of North Carolina, on the bridge that went from Hickory to Uncle Morton’s place outside of town appears. The memory that his home was called “Turning Point” appears. An image of the driveway arises and passes away. Images of the living room and things that I did there arise and pass away.

The memory that Turning Point was next to the home of Morton’s friend and mentor arises. The memory that his name might have been Charles Boedeker Smith arises. The memory that my cousin CB is named for him arises.

They all pass away.

A memory of CB reciting what he was taught growing up in the South arises. The memory contains the sound of his child’s voice with its southern accent saying:

“Why I hate Yankees.
“Long, long ago, before Mommy, or Daddy or I was born, the Yankees came down and burned all our houses.
“And that’s why I hate Yankees

Then that passes away.

What appears in consciousness?

The idea of asking my mind for some memories—the idea that led to this post—arose in consciousness.

Before it passed away, I followed that idea and asked my mind for memories.

The memories arose in consciousness.

In between memories, I did some Googling.

I asked Google for information by typing, speaking, pointing, clicking.

The information that I asked for arose in consciousness—via the internet and my browser.

What is the relationship between Google and the rest of my mind? I ask both for information and information arises and passes away.

What does all of this mean?

What is it good for?

I don’t know.

Maybe I’ll do a podcast with my brother and sister.

Intention

Several days ago, the intention to write a post about this arose.

It was strong enough that I scribbled some notes in my notebook. It was not enough to produce a post.

The day before yesterday I wrote this post. Afteward, the intention to write this post was stronger.

I didn’t intention that might have caused me to abandon it get in the way.

I worked on it diligently when I had time.

And this morning, I finished it.

​

In memory--or the lack of same

This morning I woke up, stumbled out of bed, wandered around for a few minutes and decided to meditate. I'd started my day that way two days ago and it had gone pretty well. So I grabbed my phone and googled for the guided meditation that I'd used. The one by...

...by...

<blank>

"C'mon, you know this," I said to myself. "You listened to it two days ago. It's....."

<blank>

"That's surprising," I thought. "I know who did the meditation. I just watched him on a live stream last night with Steven Pinker. I'm a subscriber to his content. It's...."

<blank>

"Wow, that's interesting!" I thought. I tried again. Crickets.

Forgetting his name is not like forgetting the names of my kids (I checked. I still remembered. Or  I believed I remembered their names. Who really knows.) But it wasn't a trivial lapse. It's not as though I'd forgotten one of the many obscure and fairly useless facts that I can still return to mind.  It's not as though I was unable to recall a fact that I had not accessed in a few years. This is a guy whose name I know well. I've read his books. I listen to his podcasts. I've listened to three or four in the past week alone. I read his blog posts. I talk to other people about him. I know what he looks like.

"It's..."

<nothing>

He wrote one of the most influential books that I've ever read. I can see the cover. It's a blue face on a white background. The book is called "Waking Up." I can remember that. It's "Waking Up," by...

...by...

<nothing>

..."Waking Up," by...

I wait.

"Sam," my mind finally replies.

"Sam?" I ask. "Sam who?"

<nothing>

I repeat myself a few times.

"Waking Up by Sam....  Waking Up by Sam..."

Finally from a blank space in my memory: "Sam Harris"

"OK!" I think. "Sam Harris. That's right."

I google for Sam Harris meditation and find it, while thinking how strange it was that I couldn't remember. Was I just not yet awake? Would a cold shower have helped? Is this what it's going to be like as I get older?

I briefly consider that idea. I imagine my memory going almost completely. I imagine not being able to remember anyone's name. I don't remember my friends. My kids are familiar, but their names are...gone. Dropped down the memory hole and forever unreachable.

Oddly, I'm not concerned. Whatever I remember or don't remember, while I was trying to remember I was that bit of consciousness that found that situation interesting and the possibility of losing my memory fascinating.

Good to know that I'll continue to be that person, no matter what facts I can't access. Good to know I'd continue to be that person even if I forgot that person's name.

But what if I forget that's who I am?