Real answers

You know those times when you feel a certain way and you want more information on that certain feeling, that specific but confusing feeling, and, because the internet has the answer to everything, you google key words from your situation and get results that might pertain to someone but not you because your situation is specific, and you get so frustrated with the internet that you can't just sit down and type out your whole situation in the search bar, send it out into the google mind, and get that one perfect result like the internet is your own personal god, and say okay, now I understand, now I have an answer?

That's the 2012 problem. You get so used to searching the internet to find out your favorite singer's cat's name and the video of that one kid with the squirrel that you expect it to have real answers to real questions of the self. So you try the same keywords in different forms of each word, in different tenses. Something will work. I will push the right button, dial up the lucky lottery numbers, sing the perfect note.

These are all questions you should be asking yourself when you write, and you have, but they keep getting stuck in a wheel. I'm going to get this quote wrong, but "if you're looking for the perfect thing to read and haven't found it, then you have to write it." I'm thinking that's probably right in this situation.

26.51: Solo excursions

Year 26, week 51.

First step: Atlanta.
The reason: Snow Patrol, the music of sanity, peace, and wonder.
The stay: A hotel that reminded me of my apartment in City View, only my view was that of the stone side of the next building.

In the Poncey-Highlands neighborhood

Where I watched KU lose the championship.

Pocket bathroom! Reminded me of my hotel in London.

Ready to be inspired.

The End of Perfection.

Second step: Hike in Caesars Head State Park, SC.
The reason: A journey in nature.
The stay: Soggy feet, tired pup, blue skies, rushing Saluda River.

Me, the Saluda River, and Mr. Pudgy, who ate 2lbs of dog food while I was away last night and regrets it.

Greenville and Spartanburg from Caesars Head. They're there, I swear.

Look from Left to Right, and you'll see Table Rock Reservoir, Table Rock Mt., and, the tallest little peak over there, Pinnacle Mt., which I hiked one year ago and didn't know that it was the tallest point entirely in SC. But I should have known because it was the most physically challenging hike to date.

Post-hike fuel from the machines. Dr. Wham, what?

Memory

After work, stressed and trying to save money, I cooked. I made chili and cornbread. I baked banana bread. I barely ate any of it, and it's all still sitting on the counter waiting to be put away.

This morning I was thinking about films again (appropriate, because all I've done today is edit video), about how growing up we would walk to Dillon's and rent VHS movies in the summer, about how we had to rent the VCR, too, a big suitcase of a thing with textured plastic encasing the machine. We'd walk to Dillon's on Dollar Day, which I think was Monday, and stock up on family movies or romantic comedies. Nothing strange. Nothing bloody. If my mother was up for splurging, we'd walk to the Blockbuster just two blocks from our house and peruse their larger selection, though still go home with the same types of movies.

Wild Hearts Can't be Broken. She's All That. Those were the favorites. Rented so many times we should have bought them. All others are lost on me. Where did those hours go? What stories did I learn, lose? Why is the most vivid memory of movies as a child the act of renting the device on which to play them?

When now I can pull a movie up on my computer. When now I can make my own videos. When now I still don't remember most of what I see. When now I know I have to commit everything to memory by writing.

It is the same with meals and with books, which I wish wasn't the case. But not with music. Music sticks to my ribs, colors my memories. Music I can keep, associate with a larger memory. My life has a soundtrack, with hidden tracks among the main score of moments in song.

Coming soon: "Snow Patrol as Religious Experience." Because if DFW can write it about Federer, then I can about SP.

Games we play

Scooter barks. Snickers scratches.

Right now Snickers is pawing at an envelope on the floor, not trying to scratch it into pieces, but scratching me into annoyance so I will feed her. Right now Scooter is barking at her because he wants a shot at tearing up the envelope, but Snickers is sitting on it.

Snickers has learned that scratching paper or books drives me crazy, and the only way to get her to stop temporarily is to feed her. In this way Snickers has trained me.

Scooter barks. Snickers scratches. I revise.

I am playing the same writing game with myself that I've practiced for the last two years. Sit down with the intent to revise essays I believe in, read them, get tired with the thought of that much close work, get scared that I actually have to dig in and write new words, and put it away. Next time I'll write. Next time I'll have the energy. I'm losing this game.

Just now, Scooter gave up barking at Snickers and started chewing on the corner of the rug. I told him to drop it and let's go outside. He obliged, and Snickers followed, but he wouldn't go near the door, so I went back to the office to continue writing. He followed, saw the envelope unattended on the floor, and stole it back to the couch.

Munched, wet paper pieces surround Scooter now as he sleeps. Snickers, temporarily content, lays at the window, where drips still fall from the roof following an earlier thunderstorm. I drink tea and think of sleep, of driving to Atlanta for the first time tomorrow, of Snow Patrol and the spiritual effect of live music, of Kansas basketball and the experience of 2008's championship, of baking and rearranging and decorating because too often the accumulation of words leaves me dizzy and afraid of completion.