"In the pale light of the morning, nothing's worth remembering."

I get all worked up over things. A song lyric plays in the car, and I want to pull the car over so that I can scribble it down and have a thought about it. I instruct myself to remember things just so I can keep from having to pull over all the time, and then when I get to my destination, the things I was supposed to remember have vaporized. I know they were there, but I have no ability to resurrect them. Often, there aren't even shadows or trails to follow. I just have to shrug and keep going.

With movies, it's all the more maddening, because I have to wait until they're over to write it all down, if I'm at the cinema. If I'm at home, I can run for paper and pen. Or call upon TiVo.

But then, hours later, days later, years later -- I find the scribbled words and I wonder why I wrote them down. Or I remember their one-time significance and scoff at it. Maybe I'm always thinking I've outgrown an idea. As sentimental as I am, I catch myself recalling the way I used to feel about something and stifling the same sort of instinct that causes an elementary school bully to ridicule you for having a mother who loves you enough to make cupcakes for your class or put your photograph on a tee shirt.

What a fool I was. What an addlepated fool. What a mutton-headed dolt was I.