They say memory is a mysterious process and on the whole, pretty unreliable.
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I can't recall who said that because my memory's, on the whole, pretty unreliable, but it was something about mere chemical reactions, randomly perceived, poorly stored, inaccurately recalled.
If true it would certainly explain my performance in the HSC and sounds plausible when a friend says to me 'Remember that time?"
And I don't.
And it gets me wondering whether I was in that memory.
Or if it was my friend's memory of someone else.
Or I wiped that memory to clear up space in the hard drive.
Given the low-grade nature of memory, it's a miracle we navigate life semi efficiently.
Concentrating helps but has downsides, reminding us there's a lot to remember while also hinting at things we can't recall.
Not that we normally have to remember everything all at once.
Just enough to convince the rest of the world we're half awake.
Or failing that, not in the way.
Like internet, there are certain places where memory reception can drop out.
Usually some place inconvenient.
Like in public.
In private it's not such a big deal because that can be our little secret - if we can remember it.
But at a petrol station - that can be an issue.
Like trying to pay at the bowser with credit card. Ideally, in a rapid fashion, like the fast flow button indicates, so the next person in the queue doesn't get all tetchy.
I was in such a retail dilemma the other day, top of a reasonably impatient queue of fellow motorists, and keen to get pumping.
I'd remembered where the button was for the petrol cap and was all primed to pay when the bowser prompted me for my PIN.
And that was a very good question in that moment, and one which for the life of me, I could not answer.
Was it birthdays?
Or next of kin?
Or just random numbers I once said I'd never forget?
Rather than just knock it in, I thought about it for a sec, which was a mistake because reflex gave way to defects and I came up with ... crickets.
If I'd been watching me from the car behind, I'm sure I would have appeared like a replicant whose battery had run flat.
Time to die.
But in reality, I was buffering.
Trying to regain connection with my memory.
Or was that bluffering?
In the absence of numbers, I tried muscle memory.
Finger goes up, down, left, right.
Or was it the other way?
Or was that the sign of the cross?
Maybe I needed to pray.
Two strikes and I was facing the possibility the bowser might eat my card and charge me with a fraudulent impersonation of myself.
Brrrt, brrrt - alarms bells were going off.
So I phoned a friend.
I wouldn't say desperately.
More frantic.
And while they faffed around about birthdays?
Next of kin?
Last week's Lotto numbers?
It came to me.
What a jag!
What a relief.
And not a moment too soon because the price of petrol had gone up 20 cents in the time I'd been pixelating.
The memory had been in there, just misplaced.
A bit like faith in my memory.
