Where were you on the night of...
The terrifying experience of meeting with good, old, sharp-witted friends and hearing about the things I said and did ten years ago. I honestly remembered a third of it at best. Terrifying to recall what passed for acceptable behavior then, and even more terrifying to not be able to remember the rest. Sounds like I'm painting myself out to be Keith Richards here, which I am not. My memory contains strange soil filled with bugs and black holes. Always has.
Two thoughts. One, my memory represses pain at low thresholds. And two, I think the beacon of my consciousness points forward, attempting to illuminate new and better futures. I remember the landscapes, the buildings, the music, the faces, the ideas, and the feelings I would want to fill those futures.
Keeping strict and readily available records of what was said or done in the past doesn't seem to be one of my brain's higher functions. While a penchant for doing incredibly dumb and embarrassing things, apparently is.
The moral of the story: read biographies, not autobiographies.
(Courtroom art by Gary Myrick)