When I was very young, my parents sent me to spend summers (two weeks at first, later extended to two months as we got older) with my grandparents and cousins on Long Island. Those were wonderful times. We learned to sail and we learned that it is possible to be friends with someone you only see once a year.

One of the highlights of these vacations was taking a trip to the Ocean on the south fork. We often spent the day building massive sand castles, with huge barrier walls protecting the intricate interior towers. Despite the fact that we knew these constructions would be gone by the next day – washed away by the tides – we built them anyway. We were not concerned about the permanence of our endeavors. Instead, we were lost in the moment, enjoying the effort for what it was.

After we’d built until we could build no more, we would run into the surf, allowing the Ocean to clean the sand from our bodies. Very often, this would lead to us scavenging stones and shells washed up by the rolling waves. We would blindly grab for anything that looked interesting and it was only after we had the object of our interest in our possession that we would investigate. We learned quickly that if you paused to consider the worth of an object before you grabbed, it would not be there when you made your decision.

When I think about the act of writing down my memories, I can’t help but be reminded of those summer days, running through the surf in the hopes of finding something interesting. A shell. A pretty rock. A piece of beach glass, rubbed smooth by the journey across the bottom of the Ocean. I plunge my hand into my memories and hope that I’m grabbing something good. Occasionally, I toss things back in, but more often, I take the time to examine what I’ve grabbed for. Examine the motivations behind why I grabbed for something in particular. After all, it interested me, didn’t it?

I’m often struck by the discordant notes in life. I pay attention to the situational irony that makes something worth remembering, if only because the texture of the story feels good between my mental fingers. Familiar, but flawed. Because that’s what life is, really. It’s about living between the cracks of the familiar. The noise that disrupts the signal that we have created for ourselves. The flaws in our routine produce the texture that makes life worth living. Or makes it interesting. (I’m not convinced that there’s a difference, actually.)

I guess that’s about as much of an introduction as I need at this point. Suffice it to say that I’m starting to sift through a big black bag full of memories in an attempt to find the interesting ones that I’d like to share with the rest of the class. It’s been a difficult process so far for any number of reasons.

However, now that I’ve published this, I’ve put myself on a schedule. I have to produce something once a week, or else I have to answer to me. And I’m a bastard when it comes to giving myself disapproving looks. After all, I have to be able to look at myself in the mirror every day.

So come back in a week. See what I have to say then. I’m hoping that it’ll be worth your time. I’m hoping that it’ll be worth mine.