Blue Monday Friday
"But I'm quite sure that you'll tell me
just how I should feel today."
I woke up this morning, fully awake, at about 6:45, singing "Blue Monday." I don't know if this was the tail end of a dream I didn't remember, or just one of those urges that was too strong to pass up. New Order Substance was cracked open and landed in the CD player, for the first time in a while.
I'm too busy worried about how I'm actually going to escape work to actually decide what my weekend plans are. Not to mention my ribs hurt like someone kicked me in them — maybe something one of the cats did while I was sleeping, so I'm not up to much. Some friends were talking about indoor rock climbing tonight, and I'm upset because it's something I've wanted to do, but the timing is kind of bad.
I've been compiling old memories, some web research (to get the dates right), and a little creative fact filtering to put together the "years" entries on the website. The idea came out of a two-sided sentiment:
1) Nostalgia is cool, particularly if it involves funny stories
2) I wanted to provide people with an idea of who I am, without having to resort to the run of the mill "
The funny thing is, I've learned as much about myself, parsing through all these old thoughts, as I intended to tell anyone else. It's like digging through the attic of an old house, looking through boxes of toys and saying "Wow, I wish I'd had one of these," only to realize that not only did you have one, this is actually all of your own stuff, and you just didn't recognize it.
Self-induced psychotherapy, almost.
There've been a handful of really surprising revelations, though:
1) I have very bitter feelings about Kindergarten. Very. And not many good ones. Now I feel almost like one of those people who "has childhood issues."
2) There were years when a lot of things in my life were changing very rapidly. 1989 is a great example— I went through at least four major musical phases in what I was listening to, three different haircuts, two or three different clothing styles, four or five different sets of friends. It's amazing. My life now seems so boring.
3) On the other hand, there were a couple of years where nothing happened. 1984 was one of those years. I was scraping the bottom of the barrel to remember anything that didn't sound entirely mundane. I feel like a whole year of my life is kind of a black hole.
4) Music has had a much more prominent place in my memories, and much earlier, than I would have guessed before. Wow.
5) I'm startled by the level of detail to which I remember some of this stuff. I hadn't thought about "trucks and blocks" in 21 years (not to mention "reading circle", "letters & numbers", "colors", "jungle gym" and all the other columns on the Kindergarten pegboard), but as soon as I got thinking about it, there it all was.
6) Deeply buried memories unfurl in waves. I'd start to think about a certain time in my life, and a flood of 8 or 10 different items would pop up. I'd write them down, then, all of a sudden, I'd think of 6 or 8 more things on the year I was working on the night before. Plus, it never fails that when I think I've figured out everything, I'll remember another set of stuff at random times.
I've heard people compare memory to a floodgate in this respect. I think that's too sudden. It seems more like a room packed full of cats. You open the door, and a quarter of the cats run out, just because they weren't allowed out before. A couple more run out when they're sure the first cats aren't still lurking around the door. Two more leave when they're sure you aren't paying attention. Another runs out because he's hungry. You find one more when you're looking for the dog. Finally, if there are any more cats in there, it doesn't matter after a while, because they're never going to let you find them, anyway.
I'm not sure if I want to be quoted on that theory or not. Anyway, I've got things to do.
"w, w, w r l. . . ."
just how I should feel today."
I woke up this morning, fully awake, at about 6:45, singing "Blue Monday." I don't know if this was the tail end of a dream I didn't remember, or just one of those urges that was too strong to pass up. New Order Substance was cracked open and landed in the CD player, for the first time in a while.
I'm too busy worried about how I'm actually going to escape work to actually decide what my weekend plans are. Not to mention my ribs hurt like someone kicked me in them — maybe something one of the cats did while I was sleeping, so I'm not up to much. Some friends were talking about indoor rock climbing tonight, and I'm upset because it's something I've wanted to do, but the timing is kind of bad.
I've been compiling old memories, some web research (to get the dates right), and a little creative fact filtering to put together the "years" entries on the website. The idea came out of a two-sided sentiment:
1) Nostalgia is cool, particularly if it involves funny stories
2) I wanted to provide people with an idea of who I am, without having to resort to the run of the mill "
I'm Matt. I'm 27. I live in Dallas. I have two cats. I work for an internet company. I like music, and computers, and books, and poetry, and so on and so on and so on" kind of rant.The funny thing is, I've learned as much about myself, parsing through all these old thoughts, as I intended to tell anyone else. It's like digging through the attic of an old house, looking through boxes of toys and saying "Wow, I wish I'd had one of these," only to realize that not only did you have one, this is actually all of your own stuff, and you just didn't recognize it.
Self-induced psychotherapy, almost.
There've been a handful of really surprising revelations, though:
1) I have very bitter feelings about Kindergarten. Very. And not many good ones. Now I feel almost like one of those people who "has childhood issues."
2) There were years when a lot of things in my life were changing very rapidly. 1989 is a great example— I went through at least four major musical phases in what I was listening to, three different haircuts, two or three different clothing styles, four or five different sets of friends. It's amazing. My life now seems so boring.
3) On the other hand, there were a couple of years where nothing happened. 1984 was one of those years. I was scraping the bottom of the barrel to remember anything that didn't sound entirely mundane. I feel like a whole year of my life is kind of a black hole.
4) Music has had a much more prominent place in my memories, and much earlier, than I would have guessed before. Wow.
5) I'm startled by the level of detail to which I remember some of this stuff. I hadn't thought about "trucks and blocks" in 21 years (not to mention "reading circle", "letters & numbers", "colors", "jungle gym" and all the other columns on the Kindergarten pegboard), but as soon as I got thinking about it, there it all was.
6) Deeply buried memories unfurl in waves. I'd start to think about a certain time in my life, and a flood of 8 or 10 different items would pop up. I'd write them down, then, all of a sudden, I'd think of 6 or 8 more things on the year I was working on the night before. Plus, it never fails that when I think I've figured out everything, I'll remember another set of stuff at random times.
I've heard people compare memory to a floodgate in this respect. I think that's too sudden. It seems more like a room packed full of cats. You open the door, and a quarter of the cats run out, just because they weren't allowed out before. A couple more run out when they're sure the first cats aren't still lurking around the door. Two more leave when they're sure you aren't paying attention. Another runs out because he's hungry. You find one more when you're looking for the dog. Finally, if there are any more cats in there, it doesn't matter after a while, because they're never going to let you find them, anyway.
I'm not sure if I want to be quoted on that theory or not. Anyway, I've got things to do.
"w, w, w r l. . . ."