You know what’s really jarring? Seizing a convenient chance to revisit the past and realizing you were completely wrong. You’ve got your nostalgia, right? And you also have a machine that measures the exact percentage of bullshit in your nostalgia. You take your sugar-frosted memories and run them through the contraption, only to despair over the fact that the machine won’t let them go.
Let me be less cryptic. I recently found a CD containing what I previously thought were my greatest musical moments. It was senior year, high school, and I had finally been accepted into Ward Melville’s illustrious chamber orchestra. I was a complete scrub, don’t get me wrong, a professional second violinist and consummate retardando grande, if I may flaunt my Italian.
We were chosen for All-Eastern, and I won’t lie to you: it was a total rush. Joy of music? Honoring the composer’s expressive intent? Mmmkay, that’s nice, file those under LOOK AT ME CARE. There were other things occupying my interest, like Times Square. The Marriott Marquis. One of the best groups on the eastern seaboard. I remember sitting there one morning, playing my all-time favorite piece, John Corigliano’s “Voyage.”
“It doesn’t get any better than this,” I thought. “Room full of critical audience members. I’m not in the last chair. I get to keep those little bottles of shampoo and everything.”
It’s a wonder I didn’t play on a rest. But when I popped in the CD lately and hit track two, the song just sounded different. It wasn’t how I remembered it. It wasn’t as rich. What I heard instead was an exhortation to take those fond memories and inject into them as much realism as possible. Makes things less disappointing, you know? Verisimilitude is the only thing that should be playing on loop.
“Another day, another dollar–” began my lame attempt at consoling a co-worker after a rough day.
He started laughing.
“–pried from the eyelids of poor underage children in the name of the Internet,” I finished.
There. Much better. Have you noticed how glum weather can make a bad day suicidal, whereas a clear afternoon with near-vibrant colors can bring you home? Today started gray and ended green, but the solid gold and the silver lining was the consistent warmth.
One image lodged firmly in my memory involves an anecdote spun by a girl in elementary school, and summer still brings this story to mind. We didn’t get along, I seem to recall, and in fact we despised each other, so this may color the retelling. Anyway, this fat-ass chick found herself stuck under a pool tarp one day and, in a novel example of problem-solving gone wrong, tried to drink all the water.
“I don’t think sharing time ever started, bitch!” was what I would’ve said, had I the vocabulary.
Instead, I probably chuckled as I surmised that chlorine was, according to the ample visual evidence, very nutritious.
Summer also marks the season when people give up responsible driving for 120-odd days. I drive like a dick occasionally, but there are two skills I’ve yet to master: ignoring those mysterious yellow lines and completely forgetting my turn signals.
This first skill is a doozy. Either you’re sampling two lanes and preventing any cars from passing, or you’re a moving physics experiment, ready to demonstrate the wonders of inelastic collisions. In the span of three weeks, I’ve avoided two morons who traded depth perception for an overweening love of head-on crashes. New bumper sticker idea!
I’m thinking along the lines of STAY THE FUCK IN YOUR LANE.
Don’t you love it when the car in front of you stops for no apparent reason? You graciously say, “Oh, I’m sorry. Let me give you some space as I try to guess which direction you’re turning, or whether you’re turning at all.” These drivers should look into replacing their turn signals with gnomes, matching gnomes filled with marzipan and loathing.
It’s been an informative and therapeutic evening, dear reader. The key to a great summer? Don’t drink the pool.
I would like to tell you where our Friday discussion went, really I would, but I don’t think you care. Any excuse just wouldn’t wash, you know? It’d give your bottle of Snuggle a sidelong glance and kinda evaporate it. I will tell you, however, a sharp mixture of guilt and verbosity seized me over the weekend, gnawed me raw, and in the end my hands were inexplicably drawn to anything resembling a keyboard, simply because I wanted to talk with you.
It got bad, proper bad, let me tell you. We’re talking anything that had buttons, maybe even a single button, I’d look at it and give it the green light. I mean, there I was at the supermarket, thinking my own thoughts and preparing to type my masterwork, when the cashier suddenly flew off the handle.
She was all like, “Man, get the hell away from the register!”
She smacked my hand.
“But this sharp mixture of guilt and verbosity!” I protested. “It is seizing me.”
Then she pointed to the door.
It’s become increasingly clear to me that the best way to recharge, the moment you hit a dry spell of ideas, is to stop, breathe calmly, and relish the thoughts of others. This was implied, I imagine, when I linked to Achewood, a much read comic I only recently discovered. What I found compelling was the art, sparse and stylish, and also the wit. One look at the archives and you’ll note the stamina as well. It’s the perfect complement to the other love. My favorite panel:
“So, down and quickly left?”
There was some of that, a little of The New Yorker, bits of Northwestern magazine, a publication that continues to show up in my mailbox without any prompting, and also some Sherlock. Of course good weather has a say in the matter, and walks are essential, but much of my indoor time was monopolized by this gem of a game. While it may not cater to your eyes any longer, it still lays out a sumptuous spread for your ears. I know mine were wiping their lips repeatedly.
And here we are, new and refreshed and ready to talk about the world in its entirety. I remember there was a point, I’m thinking early 2004 and thereabouts, where it was acceptable to ignore you for days on end. That shameful negligence gave way to workmanlike repetition and, lately, absolute necessity. You’re like premium unleaded to me. We’re not through yet.