Glorious day (or night rather) I am back on Pacific Standard Time, and I got to drive home in the dark. On Sunday I happened to mention to a friend that I would have to drive home and hour in the dark now, and at the time I was not sure what I thought of it, but tonight, my first night of driving, I think I can say I am quite happy to be doing it. There is a strange joy I now take on my evening commute, a little joy of nostalgia, though it be only one year old. Last year I was driving home in the dark, happy to have a full-time job, arriving at home to build a fire and relax in my house, secure in the knowledge that I could keep it and our hardest times were behind us.

Last year around this time I was driving home while listening to books on tape; I listened to “Sharpe's Trafalgar”, a couple of Anne Rice's vampire books (“Interview with the Vampire” and “The Vampire Lestat”), and Terry Pratchett's “Moving Pictures”. Last year I had just launched Promethean Logophile and was anticipating my first attempt at NaNoWriMo (which starts tomorrow). I can still remember the joy of coming home to a warm meal, cozying up to a warm fire, and creating a cozy little world of my own. These are all warm memories, and they all came flooding back as I was driving home tonight. Sure they were not perfect days (as evidenced by my non-participation in NaNoWriMo this year) but they brought a sense of joy and a slight eagerness to do it again. I might have to pick up another Anne Rice book, and maybe my muse will return and I'll get some more writing done. Regardless, I think I'll enjoy my commute home a little more these days, and I certainly won't mind the dark.

I am a walking, talking, breathing puzzle. I don't pretend to be a jumble of pieces one must put together, nor a series of challenges one must pass in order to unlock the door to the next level. I am a puzzle, to myself, because I find I like somethings, dislike others, are intrigued by things which I will not pursue, and cannot explain any of this. I would like to think this is all a part of growing up and maturing, yet another page in the Know Thyself journal, but as I have but one life to live. . . .

During High School I would often find myself in the company of gamers. The game I begin to hear the most about was “Magic: The Gathering”. This was something new, something beyond the Dungeons and Dragons campaigns they were digesting. This was a Collectible Card Game (CCG). They would often discuss their new cards, mull over the finer points of building decks, and somewhere (I never witnessed it myself) they actually played the game. The game always seemed fun to me, as there was no set deck of cards. Each player gets his own deck of cards that he brings to the duel, and each deck is most assuredly different.

Maybe I have been writing for far too long, but as I look up and gaze out my window I see a most welcome and pleasant sight. The fog is rolling in, thick enough to turn the trees a few blocks away into mere silhouettes. The sun is failing and night is setting in. I've got a candle light (for the scent), the lights are low, I'm listening to music that fits my mood, and I'm finishing Chapter 5 of my novel for NaNoWriMo (for those of you not following along, I'm nearly at 44,000 of my needed 50,000 words). The fog and the failing light somehow reminds me of stories and tales of medieval adventures and quests, the kind my grandfather used to tell me around camp fires, and late at night when we'd visit them (and in their corner of this world there is hardly a night that is not foggy).

I love this mood. I love the feeling it brings to me. The house is rather calm (my wife is out shopping) and I've selected some music that compliments my mood and the atmosphere around me. Sadly I cannot fit this mood into my book just yet, but it is a very pleasant place for me to be in order to write. At times like these I feel particularly blessed and fortunate, as if God crafted this weather and this mood just for me (which is a silly thought).

Maybe someday I will be able to bring this mood of mine to life, then I could truly share it with my readers.

As I already noted I have begun to scan the entries I wrote a year ago. While this blog is not chronicling my life it is interesting to see what was on my mind a year ago, and what things were important enough for me to write about them. People who champion the notion of keeping a journal will tell you that the advantage is looking back at what you have done and reflecting on it and so you will not forget things. It is this aspect of not forgetting things that I want to think about some.

I did what I do not normally do. Friday afternoon I found myself desiring to read a good fantasy story, the only problem, I was already in the middle of a fantasy book, and had a gothic book I felt pressured to read (so much for joining a reader's group). I usually finish one book before I start another, but on this particular day I had no interest in continuing the book I was in the middle of; I had read the book once before, but forgot too much of it to read the sequel, and it's mood was darker and more serious in tone than I was looking for. Months back I was fortunate enough to find a small cache of cheap but new fantasy books (the three-in-one kind) at a local used book shop. One of those mammoth books (1300+ pages) I had read, as a youth, and enjoyed. I am speaking of "Dragonlance: The Annotated Chronicles".

As I have been reading this book I have been whisked back into my youth (which surprisingly enough is more than a decade ago!) to times that were most pleasant only when I was reading. I can still recall reading books on the school buss on the way home (that buss was a nasty ride, and the worst part of any given day). I can also recall spending lazy times in my backyard reading, and then looking up at the clouds replaying the scenes in my mind. The best part of it is, these happy memories are returning as I read the story once again. (I do not yet know if it's a blessing or a curse that I do not remember the details of the story, but nonetheless I am enjoying everything thus far!)

Tonight I was finally able to give my old Volvo to a friend (this has been in the process for 9 months). While sprucing up the car and adjusting a few things many happy memories came flooding back, and I got rather nostalgic about the two ton contraption. There were many weekends spent fixing the engine, many long road trips with and without passengers, many a happy moment relaxing and enjoying a drive while listening to music. In a way it was a part of my growing up years, and I almost regret giving it away. The funny thing is, I still know how to drive the thing and navigate all it's little quirks and tricks. I have not touched it in over 8 months and I still have "the magic touch".

Last week my wife and I rented The Hulk and there was one portion of a scene that caught my eye and has been causing me to think on it ever since. The scene in particular has the adult Betty swinging on a children's swing-set. It was not until the second time I watched the movie that it dawned on me that I like swinging, and how odd it seemed fully grown adults can enjoy some of the same simple pleasures they once enjoyed as children. I still enjoy swings; I love rocking chairs. In my mind these things have always been for children to enjoy, because of their simplicity. Yet as an adult I find myself sometimes happily eager to hop onto a swing set and sail for the sky, and I always prefer a rocking chair over any other available seat.

I wonder why this is. I wonder what makes some of us do things and like things like this.

This evening found my wife and I leaving a Dairy Queen with Blizzards ™ in hand when I witnessed a curious event. Two young kids (grade school aged) were chattering, laughing, and plotting some harmless imaginary diversion which gave them pleasure. This is not so curious but that I remembered I had times such as those, yet I could not recall any particular one, even though I recall thinking each time that it was something important to me. This made me also think on how often we assign importance to something that we easily forget about years later, only to believe it must not have been important at all.

It strikes me that there are a good many things that transpire in our lives that have some meaning, some importance, some special quality to endear itself to us for the moment, and yet we will forget them. There are myriads of events that have shaped us in small ways, yet we cannot easily recall them, if at all. Are the details of the events all that important or is it the fact that we had enjoyable times in our childhood? Are the things we cannot remember factors that have influenced our present outlook on life? We can recall those "grand" moments where we were faced with some great trial that did alter the pattern of our life. How much do the day-to-day events of our lives shape our future selves?

It was fun to watch children play as I used to and recall that I once did that. I wonder what other unremembered memories I have?