The People Deck.

I may have found a problem with myself. 

I’m a quiet man, and prone to contemplating, especially over black coffee. In these still moments the thin white vapor from my mug seems to clarify my vision rather than obfuscate, and I drift away with it. I tend to ponder the Day, whether it be to-Day or yester-Day or some strange Day in the future. I pick apart the bits and pieces of my journeys, real and imagined, and assign to them my present valuations. A furtive look from an attractive co-worker can be dissected into its specifics, carefully logged in detail alongside personal histories and past conversations and finally gathered in a mental dossier for further review. Or a political article can remind me of an argument with a friend, and lead me down a path of further examination, with new expert opinions and vicious cross-debate staged within the forum of my own scattered mind.

The judgments and dissenting opinions that conclude these private case briefings tend to hold little weight for me. Or at least they weigh little more than any fleeting moment can weigh on a complete history of the world, any peculiar species on the page count of an encyclopedia. That is to say, I cannot find much latent value in these transient thoughts when compared to the large volume of thoughts that bookend them. Instead, their value arises as they pass through my vapor-thin window of focus, my drifting mind applying the urgency of presence upon them, then quickly revoking it. And thus, in due course the ends of these passing coffee monologues weigh just as much as their means.

These still moments constantly remind me that people lie at the center of my most cherished experiences. The daily mundanities, the smiles and nods of nearly-friends and distant acquaintances weigh heavily on me, heavier than I would expect if the pillars for societal trust were bloodborne, or bound to the town I was raised in or the language I speak. To think the idea of the Stranger has been used to fuel human alienation and war-mongering, this is exceedingly foreign to me. Perhaps there were times and places where such thoughts were well-suited. For my part, I am happy not to live then or there. But back to people.

The more I think about the value I place on these precious, finite moments, the more I realize how easy it is for me to lose them. I am not a social butterfly; my peace comes in solitude, in the morning chirpings of small birds outside my window and the lazy rays of sun that crawl across my parlor rug. I have very few natural tendencies for maintaining human interactions, outside of standing there, or being available. A small benefit of this lacking skillset is that the few friends I have tend to be very forward in their seeking out of me, very vocal in their care. But the greater problem remains: for all the value I find in all these passing moments, there is little I can do to hold them longer.

Human loss is a necessity of human life. And there are thousands and thousands of random passings and elbow bumpings in the Every-Day, much more than the brain could rationally itemize and store. And perhaps being exceedingly present for all the fleeting moments of your life is the one, best way to pay them homage. Nevertheless my morning coffee leaves me wanting for something more.

This is where my idea of the People Deck arises. For some time I’ve studied different tactics of memorization, the mental health benefits of rote memorization, and the intriguing power of mnemonics, and the grand feats of past memorizers. Out of the vast options of study methods and systems, my personal favorites tend to use spaced repetition, a technique that greatly increases learning rates for just about any information you can fit on a flashcard. Indeed many flashcard apps make use of this method, and many studies have proven its effectiveness. But rather than memorizing vocabularies for other languages, or stanzas for epic poems, what if I created a flashcard deck of every single human being I ever ran into? Such a system would better preserve these miniscule interactions within my long-term memory, and give them each their due weight in my quiet moments. How better to cherish these strangers in my life, these passings in my day? In my still moments of contemplation, is there a more practical way to pay them tribute?

I am satisfied with the idea, and I am out of coffee, but there is still a problem here which bothers me. These brief encounters are so very rich, so full of beauty and angst and softness and shard. I fear that I cannot fit these fleeting human moments onto flashcards.