Space Planning Proposal for My Brain

To: My brain

Re: Space planning proposal

Dear Brain,

Thank you so much for your generally effective functioning. I remain grateful for your instrumental role in the success of my career, my family, and my general happiness.

The purpose of this memo is to inquire about, and perhaps suggest a revised organization of, your memory banks. As I can gather from my general recall ability, most of your space appears to be used quite well, especially for someone our age. I commend you in particular for your efficient and productive functioning in recalling the names of my students, the intricate web of toy and television character names important to my kids when they were small, and (usually) what day of the week it is.

One area of concern, however, is the music archive, particularly the section that was formed

a) in the 1980s, and

b) when I possessed limited powers of discernment.

Case in point, a song from the Classic Rewind satellite station, to which I flipped in a moment of weakness and desperation when falling asleep at the end of a car trip last week. Artist: Asia. Track: “Only Time Will Tell.” I discovered, with dismay, that I recalled every word and note and minute modulation of said song with little to no prompting.

My dismay extends to the present. While the song served its purpose in the moment——I belted out every word, which terrified my children, but did keep me awake——it refuses to recede to the background now that it is no longer needed. The song is stuck on repeat in my head.

It feels as if you have latched onto this song like a rodent to a questionable nut, your little paws spinning and spinning the nut as you examine and reexamine this flawed specimen from every possible angle, hoping to find an acceptable spot to eat.

There is no acceptable spot in said song.

It feels as if I am, as they say, losing my mind, despite the reality that you are not only not lost, but very close——nay, inescapable.

Questions of artistic merit aside, I believe this song is actively dangerous. The sheer illogic of the lyrics poses a threat to the integrity of the surrounding brain data.

If such flawed content is allowed to stand unquestioned, future incoming information might likewise fail to be reviewed. As we soon head into our “golden years” with

a) limited capacity, and

b) increased potential for instability within our archived content, how will the surrounding interstices be protected from such corrosive illogic?

Proposal for alternate use of space: rezone for multipurpose use, including, among other information:

1) Names and ages of my friends’ kids and pets, so they don’t think I’m an asshole.

2) Correct names of current video games and the characters contained within, so that I can retain the crumb of credibility I hold with my kids as they head into teenagerdom.

3) Shopping list recall, so I don’t have to stand frozen in aisle three like a twit, staring at the plasticware while trying to remember that one thing I left the house for in the first place, and looking so desperate as to prompt a fellow shopper turning the corner to ask, her face paused in concern, “Are you okay?”

4) Material from my undergraduate philosophy class, so I can develop a more coherent response to that conservative Hobbesian menace whose office is three doors down from mine, and who remains gleefully invested in the idea that there is no real hope left in the world, and we’re all destined to battle each other back into the prehistoric muck.

Likely, I am sending this memo in too much haste. I have lost my capacity for restraint.

In short, that song is driving me bananas. Please make it stop.

Sincerely,

To: Jessica

From: Your brain

Re: Space planning proposal

Thank you for your memo, and for the kind words about our effective functioning.

We have reviewed your proposal and are sorry to say that we must reject it. Our reasons extend beyond the reach of the English language, but we hope the following example can aid in your understanding.

Recall when your grandfather died. Recall, as well, the old diary your mother returned to you when you all came home from the funeral. Years earlier, you had thrown it in the trash because it mortified you. However, it contained memories of your grandfather that you had forgotten.

For example: “Grandpa and I watched a magishen. Grandpa laffed with me. He is graet. He smells like creen soda. He always has candy. I love him.”

You were six when you wrote that. Your hypercritical ten-year-old self, embarrassed by the diary’s misspellings, rickety handwriting, and simple, clumsy representation of your world, threw the book into your Minnie Mouse wastebasket. Your mother retrieved it from its nest of used tissues on trash day.

When your mother showed you this entry, you cried. You both cried. You had forgotten about the magician until you read the words of your earlier self. This memory was precious to you. It brought even the body of your grandfather back to you, because you recalled his proximity——the details of his face in profile next to you, his smell (not just the “creen” soda, but an additional rich smell of deep understanding and connection)——and felt him next to you again.

You make a compelling case to remove the clichéd and shoddily constructed song from your memory. We only ask that you note how well it served you when you needed it. The song, the whole of it——not just the music and admittedly substandard lyrics, but also the time in your life to which the song remains attached——may likewise serve you again in ways you cannot yet predict.

We know that it is disappointing to have a proposal rejected. We are sorry that we cannot entertain it at this time.

Sincerely,

Brain