Vacuosity

Pig

I am a glutton for experience.

This weekend's convention flew by; I can't believe it's over already. And while I was there each day, I feel I was somewhat preoccupied, and not there enough. It's as though I were half asleep the whole time, with all this activity going on, buzzing, buzzing. It's all a blur to me now of semi-lucid encounters with old friends, and a host of surreal experiences.

What bothers me is that I feel like I didn't experience it enough, like a decadent chocolate dessert eaten too quickly to be appreciated.

I've been feeling like that a lot lately: about the seven months of Jaimeson's life that have passed already, about my last couple months at work, about all the weekends gone too far to fast, about all the people in my life that I really would like to spend more time with, but never do. I feel like we're so busy doing, that we can't enjoy the activity.

And there are so many media bombarding the senses that we can't differentiate between what to retain and what to ignore. How many times have you had some stupid jingle stuck in your mind? I personally have an apparent attachment to that little ditty: "Everyone loves Marineland!"

Many times have I been with Jordan or Jaimeson and thought, "This moment, right here, right now, remember it. How she looks, how he laughed, that quirky movement of a poorly controlled body, how I feel, remember it all in its entirety." But I can't. Even while I'm thinking it I know I can't; and I lament the loss.

I keep thinking that there has to be some way to tap into those captured moments, electronically, and mine the depths of long-term memory. True it's dangerous territory; a little PhotoShop work on a teenage self-image and suddenly I was 210 lbs. with 40 inch biceps. But that's not the point. And I want to be able to share the experiences too, in a way that talking or writing can't achieve.

I also find that I want to feel things, see things, do things, solely for the sake of the experience. While on the flight to Winnipeg, I was aware of the remote possibility that the plane could crash. It wasn't likely, of course, but part of me wished it would happen. I don't want to die, I don't want even to be hurt, and I don't want other people to suffer either; but I can't deny that I felt a twinge of disappointment when we landed safely. It sounds cracked, but think of the magnitude of the experience. You can't tell me that there's no value in that.

There's a world of experience out there that I will never see, ever, even if I lived a life devoted to it.

posted by David @ 11:15 p.m.