Amity tagged me for the 6 word autobiography thing, and I’ve been thinking about it all weekend, and finally came up with this:

Desperately trying to remember everything, always.

I used to remember by writing, on paper, in journals, for classes, for whatever. Then I started remembering at Diaryland, then Typepad, and it seems now that my remembering has morphed into being photo-centric, as anyone who follows my flickr account can attest to. But it’s not just that.

Working so hard to remember everything means some things are hard to forget. I got an iPod nano this week, to take to the gym, mostly, and I opened up my bottom drawer of music. I used to be Really Into Music — especially all those years I sold it for Borders, and when I was a DJ at the college radio station ("13.5 watts of power: You could throw us in your bathtub and still live" was my signature signoff) but then when I stopped getting massive, constant exposure to new stuff, and tons of free music, it dropped right off. I have a drawer of music — a bunch of stuff from label reps still in the wrapping, even — that I rarely open. I dig out John Denver every holiday season, but this year, it was still in the CD player from last year. Yeah. I listen to music in my car — the local college station when I’m in town, and when I’m driving out of range, I listen to Ani DiFranco or the Indigo Girls or Avenue Q, or a mix cd from Amy or Andy — all old favorites that I can sing along to and know every word, basically. But I haven’t cracked open the big drawer o’ music in a long time.

I dod this week though, and it’s crazy how some CDs, I just look at, and Remember. And it’s not all good, and it’s not all bad, and it’s not with regret or wistfulness, it’s just — strange. How one song can immediately take me back, to late night phone calls from foreign countries, or that sleepy little cow-town, or walking home by cutting through the police station parking lot or driving through the reservations in Arizona where there are no phones, no power lines, and ten years ago, no cell service.   Waking up in a Denny’s parking lot in San Bernardino, smoking that first cigarette of the day on the porch of the colorful house on Dingle Ave, drinking beer and smoking up on the remnants of a trestle, seeing the official girlfriend at the standard breakfast place, realizing she knew, now.  Green Mountains, Great Ocean Road, Highway 89 (easily the most beautiful road, ever) I-70, the Track Road, Deadmans, TransCanada, Airline, 27, Camelback, Cactus&Tatum, Santa Monica Boulevard, PCH.

And there are songs that just slam me back into those moments, with such a weird, unsettling ferocity. Because I haven’t listened to music for so long, a lot of that music hasn’t had time to wear down to Just Another Song, it still has the same power it had, ten years ago, or more. To hear it now, I know that all of those experiences were threads that led me here, and could I have ended up here without them?

So, yeah. Desperately trying to remember everything, always.