The Purpose of Writing the Days

I’m wondering about memory and the act of recording. I lose so many days to the dull wash of time and routine. There’s something here about the unexamined life, about the insanity of going through the same motions expecting different results. Lately I’ve given away whole nights, from dinner to sleep, whole thick round hours, to autopilot—sitcom or movie, sports or celebrity poker, DIY or reality TV. Not that there isn’t ‘information’ in television; not that it’s a complete waste of time.

Still, I imagine there are more rewarding ways to construct an evening. Young children spend those few moments before sleep reviewing their days for information—replaying the dramatic and the mundane moments. And there isn’t a learning curve more profound than that of children: they learn their language (the whole taxonomy of everything), the unique social mode of their culture, they practice and master a range of physical movement. As an adult I enter sleep through the door of anxiety—one that I have to force shut behind me.

I wonder if we lose the ability to learn because our days yield less information as we age, because we learn too well the ability to draw from parallel experiences and our lives offer up less of anything new, because we (understandably) seek safety and certainty over experience. Just last night my wife and I were wondering if we were happier as children. I said that our adult lives are more fulfilling, that we face more complex problems, that we’re in the position to build new things, to create the world, to realize dreams—that opportunity is paired with responsibility. I had a hard time meaning it.

So here’s a record--a review. I want to keep the ego out of it. I don’t ever want to tell myself something small if it isn’t clarified by wonder. If I ever write a memoir, I want it to be at an old age. And I want the thousand chores and dramas to be imbued with a quality like wisdom.