Yesterday, I forgot the word "motto." I knew there was a word that would express what I wanted to express about Fox News, which had been the subject of an email earlier in the day that showed a picture of a sign saying, "We deceive. You believe." It struck me as a pretty fair motto for Fox News, but when I searched for the word that I knew existed, I couldn't find it.
And then there was the slip-sliding mind when idly watching "Jeopardy," a quiz show about all sorts of topics. In more than one instance, I knew I knew the answer, but I simply could not find it quickly or easily. It was as if the pathways of memory -- and hence existence -- had rusted or become clogged or perhaps just lost their power to impress.
Where do these answers go -- even if only temporarily? Is there a realm to which they are assigned, bit by bit ... the Forgettery Bin? And more interestingly, what about the sense of loss and whispering panic ... if I can't remember, then who am I? If I forgot everything, who would I be? Surely I would be someone, somehow ... but who? So much of personal importance relies on memory. Is that important?
I will beat slick and savvy respondents and say it myself: Forgetaboutit!
But who forgets? Is s/he the same one who remembers? And who says so?