Sometimes when we write, we just want something magical to happen on paper. We want to write something epic, something that will be all-inspiring or maybe something quotable for future generations. I have slowly come to realize that this “planned writing” is not how it really works. I’m pretty sure Whitman, Tolkien and Rowling did not plan out something epic, at least at first. Shakespeare might be a different story, but whatever.
I write because I like to reflect. I say that, but then at the same time, I can’t remember the last time I went back and read a previous piece of my work (except my blog, but I think that’s just because I do it to see if there are any spelling errors). I feel like there isn’t time. Of course I always have the intention to read journal entries from a class or an essay that got a really good grade or a poem that won some sort of award, but I don’t make time for it.
Some people write to spill out their words and organize their thoughts in front of them. I guess I do that too. Tonight I just wanted to write something because it was one of the best nights I’ve had in a long time, and I simply want to remember it. Will I read this again? Probably, but only because it is the first time I’ve written about how I usually don’t read stuff that was originally intended to be re-read. I need to double check that last sentence to see if it made any sort of sense. You may need to read it a few times.
Here’s my fundamental problem. I want to remember everything. Yet I also want to live in the now. If I could, I would have two lives. I’d actually have ten, to fulfill my different interests, but for the sake of your sanity and time I will just describe two.
The first life would be the one that you’d expect for the average person on earth (if there is such a thing). That would be to be born, raised, have a childhood, grow and learn and experience, hopefully pass on those learned things to the next generation (whether you have kids or not), and die, whether young or old. In that life I would travel and experience all that life has to offer. Bah, such a cliché sentence. Let me elaborate.
Travel: whether I travel to my neighbor’s house or to Australia, I will still learn from and be inspired by the conversation I have there or the surroundings in which I’m placed. Experience all that life has to offer: … the ellipse stands for the past minute that has gone by in which I’ve tried to figure out exactly what I mean by that. I suppose I mean the first part of this paragraph; having conversations with people and learning from their experiences. Agreeing or disagreeing. Arguing whether or not different aspects of pop culture reflect society and in what ways. It means, for me, laughing with friends and starting a family.
Still in first life mode? Still with me? Good. In that first life I would photograph and document all my travels, videotape my life and the life of my family. I would write and write and write and reflect and reflect and reflect upon thousands of encounters and occurrences. The plan is to successfully accomplish all the aforementioned pieces of my life. To live, document, and die. For those of you that know me; I already do that.
In that second life, I would sit down in a big rocking chair on a back porch in the afternoon, or on a big comfy couch sitting next to a Christmas tree (like the one I am now sitting beside in my living room), and I would sit with a pile of all the documentation of my life. This would essentially be tangible memory. In front of me would be a large screen with all the photos of my life that have either been taken by my family or by me. In addition to that I would, of course, have some of my favorite songs playing. You know what, hell, it would be one huge slideshow. Roll your eyes now, for those that know me. Ready…go. Ya done? Ok good. Not only a slideshow though. The slideshow would need to pause for videos and physical documentation. The tangible memory would all be in chronological order.
First, after baby videos and pictures of course, would come the little finger paintings. Then would come a nice stick figure drawing, mixed in with some more birthday pictures. Then would come sloppy handwriting, report cards, favorite foods, and pictures in which I didn’t color in the lines. Then would come some nicer handwriting and even some practice cursive, some more photos with family and my first birthday party with friends from school, then little poems we were supposed to write about what we wanted to be when we grew up. Then would come Halloween costumes. Then the report cards would turn from check marks into letter grades, then from letter grades into numbers. Photos would become digital, and scraps of paper would become a computers like the one I am now typing on. Songs would change from the Backstreet Boys to Simple Plan to Dave Matthews Band to Coldplay to Lady Gaga and Frank Sinatra.
The pictures would first feature baby formula. Sippy cups would be replaced by the Disney collector’s cups from McDonald's. Those would be replaced with soda cans and Gatorade bottles. Those would be replaced with red cups (and even another pink sippy cup that my friends bought me in Disney world. Whenever I have adult drinks with them I have to drink out of this sippy cup). Red cups would be replaced with pitchers during happy hour, then again with champagne and wine glasses. Then the sippy cups and baby formula would start over again.
Pudgy baby cheeks would stretch out and strands of hair would begin to grow through the flesh. The hair on the face would eventually be sliced with a straight-edge but would continue to grow. The hair would be a dark brown mixed with some red (thank you Italian/Irish/Mexican ancestors), and then would slowly turn into a salt and pepper. Then it would turn gray. Then white. Then it would start to fall out, or be shaved completely down to the skin more often. Then the cheeks would begin to sag and to grow soft again. They would come full circle and return to their smooth, pudgy state.
I would see words turn into sentences. Then sentences would turn into paragraphs and paragraphs into essays. Adverbs, descriptors, words that awaken all the senses would be used. The writing would turn from kindergarten slop to third grade cursive. It would transfer from English to Spanish and then into Italian. The space between the lines would grow smaller and smaller, and eventually the lines would vanish and be replaced by double or single spacing on a computer screen. The words would appear on Xeroxed copies of sheet music. They would be posted on Xanga, on Myspace, on Facebook, on nice printed paper, in Newspaper articles, on blogs. They would turn into thank you cards and follow up emails for job interviews. Then they would go back to being sloppy letters jumbled together on a scrap of paper for wedding vows. Those scraps of paper would turn into the scraps of paper that have the potential names of my children written on them. One scrap would make it through to the final round of baby naming, and one word from that scrap would end up on a birth certificate. Then the words would organize themselves into a list for my will. Then the words would be sent out in an e-mail or in a note, extending a word-of-mouth notification of my death or announcement of my funeral. They would appear again in a newspaper as an obituary. Then they would be read off of a scrap of paper read by one of my children or off of sheet music sung by friends during the service.
And I would spend this second life reading these words and sentences and pages, scrolling through these pictures, eating this food, listening to these songs, watching these videos. To do all this within the first lifetime would be virtually impossible, unless I decided to stop living the first life at a certain point and chose to sit in a room and look at all of my past adventures until death. It seems unfair that as living beings we are given life but must choose, whether consciously or unconsciously, when and how much time is devoted to reflecting upon it.
Maybe that’s what heaven is for.
Hold on. On second thought, there would need to be three lives. Or at least an extension of the second. Here’s the only problem I have with life numero dos thus far…I’m the only one that’s watching it and looking at all the tangible memory. Granted, it is my life, and about 75% of it will not be interesting to anyone else. My family would probably see all of the documentation (maybe skip over the red-cup era), and my friends would see the ones starting in elementary school. Reflecting with friends is what got me started on this ridiculously long and reflective piece of writing. Xanga-entry…go.
Tonight was one of the best nights I’ve had in a long time. The best part was that there was absolutely nothing extraordinary about it and no alcohol was involved. I went to a pot-luck with some friends from high school, many of which I haven’t seen since this time last year and some of which I will not see until early 2011. They are not my closest friends, but we just had one of those nights where your bladder or mouth full of beverage is going to explode from laughter. The night consisted of anything you’d expect; wild storytelling, recollections of fantastic and terrible high school teachers and bad jokes. Names of people that graduated a year ahead of me were thrown around. Some were at school, some were working, some were in the military, a few were engaged or married, a few had children, some I did not recognize the names of at all. The part of the night that really got me thinking was the series of “remember whens?”
Is it scary to think I’ll be 21 eight months from tomorrow? Yeah. But everyone talks about that. It just happens. The third life would be to sit and to talk about all that has happened with each of our slideshows and documentation and how they weave in and out of each other. We’re starting to do that now. Here’s something that blew my mind. Will the conversations we have at this annual pot-luck be constant? Will it consist only of “remember whens” from high school? Time will progress, but will the conversations be frozen in time and space? Will the stories that come up be akin to a catalog that we can pick and choose from? Will it ever get to the point where we begin to say “remember when we talked about all those stories from high school?”
Or, will new stories develop? Will this year’s jokes and stupid moments turn into “remember whens” of next year? I would like to think that this is what will happen. It probably will happen. Am I worried about what the conversation will be like in a year? Of course not, what’s the point in doing that? All I know is that I’ll be sitting with my friends and talking and laughing. Forget the third life for now; because that’s already happening in the first one.
