Memory stored in the back is like carrying stones - thick and dense information I can never break apart, never get a grip on with the gray matter of my fingertips. So I move around inside like a geologist in an ambulance, collecting bits of stone, picking and choosing, surveying the shifts in the strata of my trapezius and tapping away at lodes and mismatched conglomerate stone memories, rushing them back in plastic baggie liquid nitrogen preservation units. I stop briefly to dump them in over loaded emergency storage units in my brain before I dash off again to the site of the dig.