I have not written an installment for this project in much too long, I hope everyone will forgive me. Here goes:
Two words: cafe.rio.
Ok, three more words: barnes.and.noble.
I mentally sort through my top ten favorite college memories, and this is one of them. I wonder if you remember it like I remember it. I wonder if you remember it at all.
To be frank, I'm not entirely sure why it stands out so.
Most of our other friends had gone out together to participate in a large group activity, so we stole away, and went to grab a bite to eat. In fact, maybe we'd been planning to go out that night for some time. Whatever the reason, we were together because we wanted to be. It wasn't one of those, 'no better offer' kind of Friday nights. Well, I guess it was. There was no better offer, because what could be better than what we were doing?
I found myself a copy of Atlas Shrugged, because I felt I had to read it in order to be considered "well-read". You had brought your laptop with you, and sat at one of the cafe tables to do some journal writing.
I joined you. It was perfect.
Literally. Perfect.
You always listened to me and appreciated my ideas in ways almost no one else ever has. I do not say that just to say it. I mean it with all of the sincerity I have. While I still think we need to write a book of all of our philosophies and takes on life, and while I miss our chats immensely, it was this silence that stood out as I thought about our history
Initially, I wasn't sure why.
Then, it came to me.
A comfortable silence is born of a mutual understanding one has with another person. It is as though I knew what you'd say if you were talking, and you knew what I would say if I was talking. So, for those few hours, we didn't need to talk. We have always had a connection, you and I, that is enhanced by the conversations, and bolstered by the silences.
The hallmark of our friendship has always been that you listen to what I say without ever patronizing or acting in a condescending way. You treat my ideas with a degree of importance that eradicates any need for me to be constantly explaining myself. I can stay silent and still be safe. No need to justify, you are on my side, whether I deserve it or not.
Thank you for that, and thank you for the negative space--the silence. It is every bit as important to the overall composition as the flourishes. It is the balance that one does not always find in every friendship, and I feel fortunate to have it in you.
Showing posts with label You {Me}--A Study. Show all posts
Showing posts with label You {Me}--A Study. Show all posts
You {Me}-- A Study: Narration
We are storytellers, you and I.
By storyteller, you must understand, I do not mean someone who relates falsehoods. I mean someone for whom stories are a part of life. I once read an essay written under the ideology that the only difference between the human brain and the computer is that the human brain knows and can apply the phrase, "that reminds me of a story." I think there is a lot of truth to that.
I believe strongly in the power of stories, be they true or untrue, sad or silly, short or long, personal or public.
I love stories.
So here I am again, back on BYU campus. You are there too, though I think that it is the first and last time I ever saw you there. Different events have brought us to be wandering about the Museum of Art on a Saturday evening, and it is there we meet by happenstance. It has been some time since I last saw you, which fuels my excitement.
meant.to.be.
You had nowhere to be, and neither did I. What else to do but join meanderings? We did, and we talked, and you told me your stories. I will not re-tell any of them here, for they are not mine to relate. I will say that as you talked, it become apparent to me that your stories mean as much to you as mine do to me.
We are kindred spirits that way.
You talked, and in turn, let me talk. Yours were better than mine. All of my stories were so pathetic, I could swear I was liable to cry at intervals. You were calm, but the things you said were affecting: typical adventures, not-so-typical adventures--heartbreak, triumph, joy, incredulation (not a word), trepidation-- all broke over me like the cold wind of the early spring that surrounded us; surrounded us as we went around, and around. I was in awe at the way you were able to size-up life, put it in perspective; it all seemed so... un-graspable to me. It was a lesson in narration. Seeing life for what it was, and not being affected to the point of paralysis. It was looking back to turn anew to the future. My story-telling sessions are usually the beginning of a long chain of excuses as to why I do everything that I do, and why I do not believe I could possibly do better...
Not yours. You own your stories in a way I have never been able to replicate.
Remember the young man with the glove? I think we told him we were siblings. Wicked of us, really.
"I think if I find the woman that fits this glove, I will find my future wife."
Oh, I could have killed you when you made some remark to the tune of "So are you going to stop flirting and just ask her out, already?"
He gave me a look like 'maybe I will', and I gave him a look like, 'maybe you shouldn't.' He didn't; but I often reminisce and enjoy a good laugh at his expense--him and his overly-flirtatious ways.
I had that glove in my pocket for a few weeks after that, and every time I put my hand into the pocket of my overcoat, I would think of you, the narrator. I wish I could remember whatever became of that little souvenir. I might have accidentally "lost it" at a bus stop, on account of the other memory I had connected with it. (haha!)
I should have kept it: that souvenir of our story.
Thank you. Thank you for your courage, and your example, and for your ability to narrate and inspire. You have done more good in my life than you can know, of that I am absolutely certain.
By storyteller, you must understand, I do not mean someone who relates falsehoods. I mean someone for whom stories are a part of life. I once read an essay written under the ideology that the only difference between the human brain and the computer is that the human brain knows and can apply the phrase, "that reminds me of a story." I think there is a lot of truth to that.
I believe strongly in the power of stories, be they true or untrue, sad or silly, short or long, personal or public.
I love stories.
So here I am again, back on BYU campus. You are there too, though I think that it is the first and last time I ever saw you there. Different events have brought us to be wandering about the Museum of Art on a Saturday evening, and it is there we meet by happenstance. It has been some time since I last saw you, which fuels my excitement.
meant.to.be.
You had nowhere to be, and neither did I. What else to do but join meanderings? We did, and we talked, and you told me your stories. I will not re-tell any of them here, for they are not mine to relate. I will say that as you talked, it become apparent to me that your stories mean as much to you as mine do to me.
We are kindred spirits that way.
You talked, and in turn, let me talk. Yours were better than mine. All of my stories were so pathetic, I could swear I was liable to cry at intervals. You were calm, but the things you said were affecting: typical adventures, not-so-typical adventures--heartbreak, triumph, joy, incredulation (not a word), trepidation-- all broke over me like the cold wind of the early spring that surrounded us; surrounded us as we went around, and around. I was in awe at the way you were able to size-up life, put it in perspective; it all seemed so... un-graspable to me. It was a lesson in narration. Seeing life for what it was, and not being affected to the point of paralysis. It was looking back to turn anew to the future. My story-telling sessions are usually the beginning of a long chain of excuses as to why I do everything that I do, and why I do not believe I could possibly do better...
Not yours. You own your stories in a way I have never been able to replicate.
Remember the young man with the glove? I think we told him we were siblings. Wicked of us, really.
"I think if I find the woman that fits this glove, I will find my future wife."
Oh, I could have killed you when you made some remark to the tune of "So are you going to stop flirting and just ask her out, already?"
He gave me a look like 'maybe I will', and I gave him a look like, 'maybe you shouldn't.' He didn't; but I often reminisce and enjoy a good laugh at his expense--him and his overly-flirtatious ways.
I had that glove in my pocket for a few weeks after that, and every time I put my hand into the pocket of my overcoat, I would think of you, the narrator. I wish I could remember whatever became of that little souvenir. I might have accidentally "lost it" at a bus stop, on account of the other memory I had connected with it. (haha!)
I should have kept it: that souvenir of our story.
Thank you. Thank you for your courage, and your example, and for your ability to narrate and inspire. You have done more good in my life than you can know, of that I am absolutely certain.
You {Me}-- A Study: Adventure
I think you could kind of tell that 12:30 a.m. was not the time I wanted to be negotiating with the employees of a just-barely-closed-for-the-night Wendy's to give you a frosty. A nobler woman than I once said that "Angry people are not always wise."- (Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice). I think the same can be said for exhausted people, so I let you have at it on your own. As you walked in, I depressed the 'recline' button on my seat in the car and thought that maybe if I fell asleep fast enough, I could dream that I was already warm in bed, instead of out here, chasing down icey treats at all hours.
It didn't take you long to get nowhere with the Wendy's employee. She was probably dreaming of bed herself.
"She pointed me in the direction of a McDonald's. It's not far"
I had been nodding off in the theatre, but had found a second wind in stepping outside. Unfortunately, the second-wind had long been used-up by the time we drove into the next city and back. I don't think bed has ever called my name so loudly.
I bit my tongue.
On to McDonald's we went.
The poor fellow working at the drive-in at that unearthly hour got more than he bargained for when we pulled up to the microphone to place our order.
"Yeah, how are the Rolo shakes?" you asked.
"It's a McFlurry. And we're out of the Rolo ones."
I don't think you heard him.
"Yeah, I was hoping to get a Rolo shake tonight."
"They're McFlurries and we don't have any of the Rolo ones right now."
I guess you still didn't catch his correction.
"Ok. Between the Oreo and the M&M shake, which do you prefer?"
"They're McFlurries."
By this point I was ready to crawl in the window, box the employee's ears, and make one myself. I didn't understand in the least why the young man felt that such impertinence was necessary, when all I wanted was to get some sleep.
"OK. Can I get an Oreo shake?"
He didn't argue you on that one, and I thanked the gods of the fast food industries as you pulled forward to the first window. While we sat there, the magical moment of 12:45 am tolled. You know, the moment where everything suddenly becomes side-splittingly hysterical; things that, 25 minutes earlier, may not have even merited a smile?
We sat there, at that window, and I don't know what made me think of it, but I couldn't help but bring it up.
"Did you take a look at that sign in the Diner tonight? The one that said, 'Come Again!'" I made quotation marks with my fingers in the air when I spoke to indicate exactly how the sign had been written.
I finished my thought. "I don't get it. What is the point of the quotation marks!? They are completely unnecessary!"
You were right behind me, and by then, we were already giggling more than the silly grammatical error had warranted.
"You know, it's like my old gramps used to say. 'Come Again!'"
We lost it.
There in the McDonalds drive-through, I temporarily lost my sanity. It was only made more funny by the fact that a few moments later our favorite employee stuck his head out of a window a few yards in front us, trying to see if we were coming for our "shake".
We were at the wrong window.
I am 100% sure he thought we were drunks, which was all just as well. I never will be drunk in my life, and, you know, you've got to get your kicks in somehow.
The point is, had we been sleeping at that moment, the one thing I thought I really wanted, I would not be writing this little anecdote. Your sense of adventure has always been such an inspiration to me; not in seeking midnight sweets, but in making life what you want it to be, and not letting little annoyances get in your way. You've always treated me as though I were endowed with that same unquenchable desire for adventure, and for fulfilling all of my dreams in-spite of the inevitable difficulties that arise in trying to do so.
If there is one thing I need a little more of in my life, it's that attitude. Thank you.
It didn't take you long to get nowhere with the Wendy's employee. She was probably dreaming of bed herself.
"She pointed me in the direction of a McDonald's. It's not far"
I had been nodding off in the theatre, but had found a second wind in stepping outside. Unfortunately, the second-wind had long been used-up by the time we drove into the next city and back. I don't think bed has ever called my name so loudly.
I bit my tongue.
On to McDonald's we went.
The poor fellow working at the drive-in at that unearthly hour got more than he bargained for when we pulled up to the microphone to place our order.
"Yeah, how are the Rolo shakes?" you asked.
"It's a McFlurry. And we're out of the Rolo ones."
I don't think you heard him.
"Yeah, I was hoping to get a Rolo shake tonight."
"They're McFlurries and we don't have any of the Rolo ones right now."
I guess you still didn't catch his correction.
"Ok. Between the Oreo and the M&M shake, which do you prefer?"
"They're McFlurries."
By this point I was ready to crawl in the window, box the employee's ears, and make one myself. I didn't understand in the least why the young man felt that such impertinence was necessary, when all I wanted was to get some sleep.
"OK. Can I get an Oreo shake?"
He didn't argue you on that one, and I thanked the gods of the fast food industries as you pulled forward to the first window. While we sat there, the magical moment of 12:45 am tolled. You know, the moment where everything suddenly becomes side-splittingly hysterical; things that, 25 minutes earlier, may not have even merited a smile?
We sat there, at that window, and I don't know what made me think of it, but I couldn't help but bring it up.
"Did you take a look at that sign in the Diner tonight? The one that said, 'Come Again!'" I made quotation marks with my fingers in the air when I spoke to indicate exactly how the sign had been written.
I finished my thought. "I don't get it. What is the point of the quotation marks!? They are completely unnecessary!"
You were right behind me, and by then, we were already giggling more than the silly grammatical error had warranted.
"You know, it's like my old gramps used to say. 'Come Again!'"
We lost it.
There in the McDonalds drive-through, I temporarily lost my sanity. It was only made more funny by the fact that a few moments later our favorite employee stuck his head out of a window a few yards in front us, trying to see if we were coming for our "shake".
We were at the wrong window.
I am 100% sure he thought we were drunks, which was all just as well. I never will be drunk in my life, and, you know, you've got to get your kicks in somehow.
The point is, had we been sleeping at that moment, the one thing I thought I really wanted, I would not be writing this little anecdote. Your sense of adventure has always been such an inspiration to me; not in seeking midnight sweets, but in making life what you want it to be, and not letting little annoyances get in your way. You've always treated me as though I were endowed with that same unquenchable desire for adventure, and for fulfilling all of my dreams in-spite of the inevitable difficulties that arise in trying to do so.
If there is one thing I need a little more of in my life, it's that attitude. Thank you.
You {Me}--A Study: Genuineness
To you, my friend, I would draw your attention to the first time we ever 'hung out' (for lack of a better phrase). Sometimes those are the memories that catch our attention in retrospect, because we see later that they come to be indicative of the whole of the budding friendship. Of course at times we do not "click" with someone right away, yet find later that we have developed a wonderful and fulfilling friendship with that person. That is valuable, and it is beautiful that such can happen.
I am not talking of one of those times here, for there are other types of 'first-time-we-hung-out-together's that are just....magic. Unforgettable.
We had a mutual class, and I was planning to spend one particular evening watching a movie to get research material for an approaching paper in said class. That afternoon, we fell into a conversation as we walked out of lecture, and I mentioned what my evening's activities would entail. You said you had been wanting to see that particular film, so I invited you over.
When you came, I was in the middle of making some collaboration to eat for dinner. This was lucky, for that is what gave us time to fall into chatting yet again. For me, it was one of those conversation where you cut right through all of the formalities, and get straight to the heart of who the other person is. It is rare that I feel I truly KNOW someone after hanging out once, but such it was. Of course, it is terribly unfair to assert that I had a true knowledge of your character, hopes, dreams, etc from one (albeit, lengthy) conversation. If this concerns you, rightly so. I will clarify. I suppose what I really knew was that you were in possession of a rare sort of genuineness.
What else do you need to see to feel you really know someone?
Think of it! When you know someone is genuine, you know the interactions that pass between you and them will be genuine; that they will always strive to present themselves as they really are. It takes a great deal of confidence to be as open as you are. Do not mistake what I am trying to say by my lack of a better set of vocabulary words. By 'open' I do not mean that you told me about your ailments, showed me your family tree, related to me details about your first kiss, and gave a faithful narrative of all of your most embarrassing moments. I mean that you embodied an ease, a frankness--a sort of rare, unguarded, way of looking at yourself and others. It was a quality that hinted at its innateness, unpracticed and natural. You do not know how well you do it, I am sure.
Looking back, trying to get in touch with myself, with you, with us as we were that evening in July 2010, looking past and through all that has happened since then until now, I can't help but ask myself: why are we as human beings so constantly on our guard? Who has hurt us so irreparably? What gross breach of humanity has made us feel that everyone is out to get us?
The answer: I do not know. I guess we all have our own story. Perhaps you, at some point, decided not to let your "story" keep you from maintaining a frankness with others who would learn from your example. I so admire you for it.
If you need further proof that this night had an impact on me, I would draw your attention here to an old post on this very blog, where I wrote about that week, including a line about the evening described here.
There we were. You, me, Johnny, Muffa (I never will know how to spell that), that red towel, the pasta...
I miss that night. I miss you. Thank you for your genuineness. A little of that goes a long way in our human interactions. A very long way.
I am not talking of one of those times here, for there are other types of 'first-time-we-hung-out-together's that are just....magic. Unforgettable.
We had a mutual class, and I was planning to spend one particular evening watching a movie to get research material for an approaching paper in said class. That afternoon, we fell into a conversation as we walked out of lecture, and I mentioned what my evening's activities would entail. You said you had been wanting to see that particular film, so I invited you over.
When you came, I was in the middle of making some collaboration to eat for dinner. This was lucky, for that is what gave us time to fall into chatting yet again. For me, it was one of those conversation where you cut right through all of the formalities, and get straight to the heart of who the other person is. It is rare that I feel I truly KNOW someone after hanging out once, but such it was. Of course, it is terribly unfair to assert that I had a true knowledge of your character, hopes, dreams, etc from one (albeit, lengthy) conversation. If this concerns you, rightly so. I will clarify. I suppose what I really knew was that you were in possession of a rare sort of genuineness.
What else do you need to see to feel you really know someone?
Think of it! When you know someone is genuine, you know the interactions that pass between you and them will be genuine; that they will always strive to present themselves as they really are. It takes a great deal of confidence to be as open as you are. Do not mistake what I am trying to say by my lack of a better set of vocabulary words. By 'open' I do not mean that you told me about your ailments, showed me your family tree, related to me details about your first kiss, and gave a faithful narrative of all of your most embarrassing moments. I mean that you embodied an ease, a frankness--a sort of rare, unguarded, way of looking at yourself and others. It was a quality that hinted at its innateness, unpracticed and natural. You do not know how well you do it, I am sure.
Looking back, trying to get in touch with myself, with you, with us as we were that evening in July 2010, looking past and through all that has happened since then until now, I can't help but ask myself: why are we as human beings so constantly on our guard? Who has hurt us so irreparably? What gross breach of humanity has made us feel that everyone is out to get us?
The answer: I do not know. I guess we all have our own story. Perhaps you, at some point, decided not to let your "story" keep you from maintaining a frankness with others who would learn from your example. I so admire you for it.
If you need further proof that this night had an impact on me, I would draw your attention here to an old post on this very blog, where I wrote about that week, including a line about the evening described here.
There we were. You, me, Johnny, Muffa (I never will know how to spell that), that red towel, the pasta...
I miss that night. I miss you. Thank you for your genuineness. A little of that goes a long way in our human interactions. A very long way.
You {Me}-- A Study: Creativity
It was official. We had decided to be friends, and to make a film. It was going to be epic.
So I walked over to your house, video camera in hand, and we set to work.
Talking.
And Talking some more.
I loved that evening. Others coming in and out of the room, joining and disassembling at intervals--despite our best-laid plans, we couldn't seem to stop talking. Too busy creating a scene of human interaction to concentrate on our art.
Now that we have grown older, I am repeatedly amazed at your ability to create. Time and distance have worn the edges of that memory a bit, and I guess if we had made a film, I would have had that artifact to remind myself of how our voices sounded then, what clothes we wore, the references we used, the music we enjoyed...
I see in that the difficulties in such a photo-journalistic approach to art. Some will say the intent of the still and video camera was to capture memories. Indeed, that is how these instruments are widely used. Polaroid, Cannon, Nikon, Sony... they all instill in us a desperation to need to capture every moment in some media in order to remember those aspects our minds will toss out while we sleep.
I guess they have a point--if we insist on details. If we must remember every nit-picky thing that would otherwise be lost to us, then a camera will certainly be a necessary tool. But, what if what we want to remember is something akin to an instance of kinetic energy? The gathering force of a budding friendship. That feeling of a mounting conversation, back and forth; two young people, for a moment, too enthusiastic about life to remember to record it.
So, years later, I record the leftovers of it here. Thank you for teaching me about creativity then, and so many times since then--you truly are an inspiration, and I wish you the best of luck in all of your creative endeavors.
Here is to the film we never filmed. Perhaps it has become one of our greatest works despite our childish neglect of its craft.
So I walked over to your house, video camera in hand, and we set to work.
Talking.
And Talking some more.
I loved that evening. Others coming in and out of the room, joining and disassembling at intervals--despite our best-laid plans, we couldn't seem to stop talking. Too busy creating a scene of human interaction to concentrate on our art.
Now that we have grown older, I am repeatedly amazed at your ability to create. Time and distance have worn the edges of that memory a bit, and I guess if we had made a film, I would have had that artifact to remind myself of how our voices sounded then, what clothes we wore, the references we used, the music we enjoyed...
I see in that the difficulties in such a photo-journalistic approach to art. Some will say the intent of the still and video camera was to capture memories. Indeed, that is how these instruments are widely used. Polaroid, Cannon, Nikon, Sony... they all instill in us a desperation to need to capture every moment in some media in order to remember those aspects our minds will toss out while we sleep.
I guess they have a point--if we insist on details. If we must remember every nit-picky thing that would otherwise be lost to us, then a camera will certainly be a necessary tool. But, what if what we want to remember is something akin to an instance of kinetic energy? The gathering force of a budding friendship. That feeling of a mounting conversation, back and forth; two young people, for a moment, too enthusiastic about life to remember to record it.
So, years later, I record the leftovers of it here. Thank you for teaching me about creativity then, and so many times since then--you truly are an inspiration, and I wish you the best of luck in all of your creative endeavors.
Here is to the film we never filmed. Perhaps it has become one of our greatest works despite our childish neglect of its craft.
You {Me}-- A Study: Confidence
I had saved that voice-mail on my phone for quite a while. The one where you were laughing so hard it took you a few tries to say what you were trying to say.
"It's not really a big deal, just call me when you can because I have a really funny story to tell you, and I know YOU'LL appreciate it."
I called you when I got off work and we had a great laugh together. It WAS a funny story, complete with an untimely google search and a certain someone. It was not the kind of story I would have had the guts to relate to anyone, and I was surprised you were willing to tell me. Surprised and grateful. Grateful for your confidence--for your letting me in. I need to be let in. To me it is proof that others have confidence in me. It gives ME confidence in me.
I know this little vignette may be a strange way to point out that you have confidence in yourself and in turn inspire it in others. Yet, that is where the truth lies; that confidence is in your make-up--the very fiber of your being.
Thank you for sharing it with me that day, but all of the others, before and after. I am profoundly grateful.
"It's not really a big deal, just call me when you can because I have a really funny story to tell you, and I know YOU'LL appreciate it."
I called you when I got off work and we had a great laugh together. It WAS a funny story, complete with an untimely google search and a certain someone. It was not the kind of story I would have had the guts to relate to anyone, and I was surprised you were willing to tell me. Surprised and grateful. Grateful for your confidence--for your letting me in. I need to be let in. To me it is proof that others have confidence in me. It gives ME confidence in me.
I know this little vignette may be a strange way to point out that you have confidence in yourself and in turn inspire it in others. Yet, that is where the truth lies; that confidence is in your make-up--the very fiber of your being.
Thank you for sharing it with me that day, but all of the others, before and after. I am profoundly grateful.
You {Me}--A Study: Spontaneity
What better place to start these strollings-down-memory-lane than on BYU campus?
My memories of this night are general: like boiling something down to its essence. As I boil, I pause to ponder the strangeness of it: this was a whole day in my life. I woke up that morning, and probably did not want to get out of bed. I probably had a few things on my plate that I wished weren't there. I probably interacted with several hands-full of people, did homework, put on makeup, ate three meals, combed my hair, picked up the apartment. I do not remember what time of year it was, or what was going on in my life, though I might presume that I was wandering campus to stave off some pending sense of insanity. So many problems that drove me to that fountain, and I continue to find myself there from time to time. Perhaps this instance--or worse, this day-- would have been forgotten,
had you not called.
"Where are you?" you asked.
A few minutes later, there you were, with a little snack, just to say hey.
I don't remember whose idea it was, but before long the two of us had peeled off our socks and began wading in the fountain. I'm sure that at the time I had some sense of "we're not supposed to be doing this." but did it really matter? We were just two friends, eating a snack, chatting, wading, unwinding. Life is serious enough, but what is really serious is living a whole day without doing one thing memorable.
Thank you for saving that day for me, packaged neatly as this snippet of a memory. Thank you for that little reminder to not to let myself turn the page over to a new day without putting a bit of red pencil on the one just completed. While we're on the subject of thanks, I think that said day thanks you as well.
My memories of this night are general: like boiling something down to its essence. As I boil, I pause to ponder the strangeness of it: this was a whole day in my life. I woke up that morning, and probably did not want to get out of bed. I probably had a few things on my plate that I wished weren't there. I probably interacted with several hands-full of people, did homework, put on makeup, ate three meals, combed my hair, picked up the apartment. I do not remember what time of year it was, or what was going on in my life, though I might presume that I was wandering campus to stave off some pending sense of insanity. So many problems that drove me to that fountain, and I continue to find myself there from time to time. Perhaps this instance--or worse, this day-- would have been forgotten,
had you not called.
"Where are you?" you asked.
A few minutes later, there you were, with a little snack, just to say hey.
I don't remember whose idea it was, but before long the two of us had peeled off our socks and began wading in the fountain. I'm sure that at the time I had some sense of "we're not supposed to be doing this." but did it really matter? We were just two friends, eating a snack, chatting, wading, unwinding. Life is serious enough, but what is really serious is living a whole day without doing one thing memorable.
Thank you for saving that day for me, packaged neatly as this snippet of a memory. Thank you for that little reminder to not to let myself turn the page over to a new day without putting a bit of red pencil on the one just completed. While we're on the subject of thanks, I think that said day thanks you as well.
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