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.