how much time do you spend in transit -- that is, physically moving between two places? what about planning things? or thinking about things you'd like to do? would things still happen in your life if you cut that time in half? is there some part of you that feels accomplished by filling out to-do lists just to cross things out, or scheduling time on your calendar to plan to do other things? when you think about the idiom of "spending time" like you spend money (in the cyclical sense of working to earn money that you use to live, and the assumed societal necessity of 'work' takes you away from the life you'd otherwise lead), is there really anything more valuable than that time? and if so, why are we so eager to "spend" that time planning and scheduling things -- perhaps double what we need to, at least -- to make us feel more accomplished for having spent that time well?

[songs.i.like - january 2010]

we fill our rooms with reminders of our favorite memories: each is a prompt, the opening lines of a favorite story. photographs, postcards, movie posters -- all preambles to thoughts we can think back on and smile. we surround ourselves with them as if we may wake up one day and be at a loss for who we are, but by piecing together the remnants of our memories, we can recreate a mosaic memory of times we've been happy.

[songs.i.like - december 2009]

do you do it to say you've done it? read books to tell people that you've read them? go out on friday so you have an answer to 'how was your weekend?' take trips so that you can tell others that you've been to chicago or toronto or bora bora when it comes up in a dinner party conversation? do you feel like this reflects positively on you if you can volunteer these details for the conversation -- do you think better of others who volunteer this information? if you weren't allowed to mention these things in a dinner party conversation, how would it change what you did tomorrow -- or would it? some of us lie on our bedroom floor and listen to our favorite records all day, and some of us work 12 hours a day. which one of these would you want to do more? which one is more socially acceptable and would be brought up in conversation? are these aligned, and if not, why not? shouldn't they be?

[songs.i.like - april 2009]

alice had just recently come to consider the possibility that she wasn't wholly sane. in the midst of winter, gripping depression and loneliness engulfed her and tightened its straitjacket hold each day. she actively searched for small solaces each day: a smile from the checkout man, the sound of children playing in the elementary school, anything to remind her of a less desolate time. and then, as the weather turned and the days grew warmer and lasted longer, it was as if a switch had been flipped: fully absorbing the city's energy, she became euphoric as a child, doing all she could to hold herself back from skipping down the street. she began to realize this seasonal cycle, and despite acknowledging its irrationality (and potential psychological abnormality), she was nevertheless victim to it. when you realize a part of your mind isn't as sane or rational as you had thought, it's a quickly falling house of cards. you start to wonder: what other irrational motivations do I have? for every thought and impulse I have that doesn't make it past the filter, are those not indications (whether small or large) of the insanity that dwells under the surface that we censor from the world? when you take a second to consider it, are we not all alice?

[songs.i.like - march 2009]

jason found himself with his forehead resting against the bus window and unaware of what'd happened in the last ten minutes. maybe it was ten minutes -- he had no watch, but stil recognized the street signs, so he couldn't have gone too far. he felt almost drunk with lucidity as he began reflecting on childhood nostalgia. without consciously realizing it, this public transit escapism had become one of his favorite activities, and he relished losing himself in thoughts of simpler times. yet this time, he came in with an agenda: what had changed? sure, he was older, he had bills and obligations, but why couldn't he restore some of the simplicity? when did asking questions immediately elicit judgments of intellect from anyone in the vicinity? at what point did others' failures begin to delight him (and others around him)? is it possible that with all our schooling and social interactions, we've actually grown more insecure? why is this -- what part of growing up makes us unwilling to take risks?

jason thought of real risks (not a business decision or financial deal) -- ones that we imagine would be difficult to recover from. the operative word being 'imagine' -- of the risks you consider high-stakes, how many of them could you actually not recover from? over the years, he realized that he's had enough fear instilled in him to terrify him into complacency: the thought of a risk is immediately met with an exaggerated feeling of potential consequence to save us from ever taking that leap.

[songs.i.like - february 2009]

staring across the cubicle, george ignored the rest of the office as he closed one eye, and then the other, playing games with perspective between the column and the back wall. had you told him that this would be a highlight of his day earlier in his life, he'd have laughed you off -- impossible! he thought there was too much to capture a man's interest to let life devolve into games bred out of office anxiety, and yet here he was: closing one eye and then the other, playing his perspective game. he'd seen life swallow people up with the promises of the safety of routine, and now he was engulfed in those same jaws. realizing it was one thing -- self-awareness, the knowing, always felt like it separated him from the others, but now he was faced with an even more frightening prospect: he realized and didn't reclaim his life, and was actually worse than the rest of them. he knew, and yet was a compliant participant, convincing himself he wanted the societal norm, and ignoring his actual desires.

[songs.i.like - january 2009]

there's a time in the middle of the night, when the bars have closed but the newspaper routes haven't started yet, that you can walk around the city and see it in an entirely new perspective. everything is still, and you can hear the sound of the traffic lights changing, and the whole town is covered in sepia tones before sunrise. the city's completely at rest, but you can feel the explosion of energy that's about to occur when millions of alarm clocks go off simultaneously in separate apartments and homes. all the city's showers pour, the electric toothbrushes all buzz for three minutes together, and the combs prepare the tops of everyone's heads for the day ahead. as millions of front doors open, the moments of calm are lost for another day, but before the alarms surprise the city awake, there's a time in the middle of the night when you can see a city, untouched, just as it would be if no one lived there at all.

[songs.i.like - december 2008]

sometimes momentous events occur completely out of the blue, like waking up to hear a radio dj taking a moment of silence before you've had the chance to wipe the sleep out of your eyes. it seems that many people would point to events they expected as momentous events -- a graduation, a new job, a wedding -- anything that was on life's checklist at the outset. but when you think about what really shaped your life, is it the ticks on the checklist, or is it actually the things you could never plan on: the random chance happenings that aren't common denominators that everyone falls into.

[songs.i.like - november 2008]

she'd been bored in conversation for the last ten minutes, absent-mindedly twisting the stirrer in her glass and alternating responses between uninterested sighs--"what'd you say...mm hm...yeah"--and gazes past the man with the frumpy suit and too-tight tie that she was speaking to. it was during one of these gazes that they first made eye contact, from across the room, and soon they were making and breaking fully intentional accidental eye contact every few minutes. hyping himself up, damien thought he'd mustered the courage to approach her when he saw her abruptly grab her hat and coat and jot something on a napkin. to his surprise, she headed straight towards him, eyes locked on him even as she passed, and without saying a word, slipped the note into his jacket pocket and continued to the parking lot. after a few moments, damien unfolded the napkin, held it up, and saw written:

[songs.i.like - october 2008]

with everything you surround yourself with, how much of it do you need? could you fit the essentials into a couple checked bags and a carry on? what about a backpack? why couldn't you sell these things that you've convinced yourself you need, and begin anew? is it really because it's too much of a hassle, or is it just that you're terrified of the unknown? we've trained ourselves to take comfort in these things we've bought and convinced ourselves that we need them for some reason, unknown even to us. little do we know, we develop a dependency on these things, this stuff with which we've surround ourselves. does it mean any more than it did when it was on a showroom floor of a store you'd never been to? why? if you step back from it, who's really the owner in this relationship?

[songs.i.like - september 2008]

art has a way of disrupting our routines -- of taking us away from them for a few moments, or the length of a song or a movie. after it has once, we're always trying to get that back in the spare time we have, thinking about them, seeing if we missed any angle, trying to place it into the context of the anaytical half of our minds. but is it enough to listen to music on the way to work and go to the movies a couple times a month? and are we so understimulated that even the most trite art captures our attention? there's a feeling many people get when viewing a painting, listening to a song, or watching a movie that they're part of something larger than their own routine, but is it the allure of the illusion that keeps us coming back to it, or is there actually a chance of getting to whatever it is we imagine art is a portal to -- that something larger?

[songs.i.like - august 2008]

just about everyone makes a plan at some point: some specific short term ideas -- today, tomorrow, next week -- and some vague, long term objectives. most all of us plot out that next step before we take it, and we plot it not out of excitement for achieving the objective, but instead out of fear for what could happen if we didn't follow that path. but who made that path? would you still plot it out the same way today? or are you just following it because you or someone else arbitrariliy decided some time ago that that path was preferable to any alternative. what would happen if you let that structure go, and consistently questioned why you were pursuing that path? did you ever think that maybe the best thing that could happen to you is for plans to not work out, and then allow yourself to respond to the present instead of to the plan?

[songs.i.like - july 2008]

the six figure suit yelling into an earpiece at a disembodied voice, and the homeless man in the tattered suit yelling at the voice he hears in his head -- they can both look the same from across the street. both the hero and the villain are motivated in part by quests for personal glory. the extravert who sees each person exclusively in terms of their use value to himself, and the recluse whose only way to exist as part of humanity is to remove himself from it -- both reject the notion of a human connection of any significance. even polar opposites share commonalities. you and I, and anyone else -- we really aren't that different from each other.

[songs.i.like - june 2008]

have you ever woken up in your own room, and found it completely unfamiliar? been amongst friends, and become convinced that you're surrounded by strangers? the world around is always changing, but in turn, we are too. sometimes one of these two rates of change manages to burst through the threshold established by the other, and in these moments of discordance, when the world is relatively static and we're careening, a situation that should be familiar becomes entirely foreign to us. there's a sense of enlightenment, of wholly pure thought, that follows this discord, and it's at these times, when the two worlds clash, that we feel we grasp our existence the most clearly. if that's too heavy, chew on this: the soundtrack to start your summer...

[songs.i.like - may 2008]

we all seem to have this concept that we'll wake up one day to perfect clarity. everything from the time the sun rises to the strength of the ground we walk upon to the angle of the earth's axis will all be understood as perfectly logical, and can all be revealed to us through organic sciences. when this happens -- that is, when we can logically explain the natural world around us -- somehow the world we've created on top of it will also fall into place, like a million puzzle pieces that coalesced to create a perfect shape. it all sounds naïve when it's laid out like that, but we still choose to live this delusion that one day everything will be perfectly clear. rationally, we know it probably won't happen, but that string of hope keeps most of us going. but what about if you acknowledge the unlikelihood of that clarity ever occurring -- what would happen if you abandon that? because really, what is the difference between hope and a pipe dream? maybe it's semantics, but then again, maybe we can acknowledge that, and still be all right. until next time:

[songs.i.like - april 2008]

something had set him off. it was always something -- it had to be. the stimulus as random as the weather, the reaction as predictable as the sunrise. here he was, on a wednesday afternoon, storming across the office, steaming about some mistake someone had made. everyone knew the routine by now, as they pretended not to notice his strides past them. as he passed the last cubicle, he entered the kitchen, threw the refrigerator door open, and came back beaming with pride, as he showed everyone:

[songs.i.like - march 2008]

everything looks better in retrospect. in writing his memoirs with an arthritic right hand, simon began to notice this trend. as he recalled his greatest triumphs, he tried to remember exactly how he felt at the time. usually, he had asked himself, "shouldn't this have felt better? shouldn't the sense of pride and accomplishment overwhelm me int oa euphoric state of bliss?" but in reflecting, the actualy feeling always fell short. of course, the opposite was true as well -- the most colossal mistkaes and missteps he'd taken never had the permanent effect that he imagined they would at the time. perhaps all this was a regulating device -- by assigning supreme importance to the peaks and valleys of his life, he maintained relevancy in his own little universe. he began writing on this concept, when he was overwhelmed with a feeling, neither positive nor negative, but entirely differentt than anything he'd ever experienced:

[songs.i.like - february 2008]

nicholas wasn't impressed with the numbers. that's not to say that they were particularly high or low, but to literally say that the numbers were no longer capable of making an impression on nicholas. and yet, he was surrounded by people consistently and constantly swayed by the numbers. fascinated even. nicholas thought back, trying to remember if the numbers ever did affect him, or he just told himself that they did, and thus the placebo was planted. while everyone else seemed convinced -- and maybe they were genuinely the type of people impressed by things like that -- he had seen past the curtain to the puppeteer's corner. feeling neither resentment nor an aire of elitism, he tossed a few files, a ruler, and a box of paperclips into a box, and on his way to the elevator, left on his assistant's desk:

[songs.i.like - january 2008]

remember how long a year used to feel? when you're in first grade, a year is relatively equivalent to the college career of a 22-year old. there was a constant sense of waiting, of wanting to be older; an age defined by anticipation. it likely would have been anxiety-inducing if you knew what that meant at the time. while some of the best memories came from an anticipated event delivering on it's promise, sometimes it's the things you didn't anticipate at all -- the things that just happened -- that end up leaving the most indelible marks:

[songs.i.like - december 2007]

daryl loved the booth right next to the corner booth. if he couldn't have it, he'd come back later, but by now, they knew him well enough to make sure no one was sitting there at 5:30. same menu, same waitress, same sarcastic conversation -- the consistency is what kept daryl coming back. he never married, and thus chose the diner. some buy pets, some live with siblings, some dive head first into hobbies and never look back. regardless, you reach a point where, living alone, you develop devotion to a routine, and daryl's was the diner -- the booth next to the corner booth. as he sat down to order, he pushed aside the menu he never needed and saw, there on the table, an inscription that read:

[songs.i.like - november 2007]

there's always something to look forward to -- the end of the day, the weekend, a vacation. but when you strike items off of your life's to do list -- finish the class, graduate, get a job -- are you ever the better for it? cameron had considered this before, but never to the extent that he'd let it dictate a life decision. still, the thought wasn't leaving him as easily this time, and so he picked up the pad, and instead of crossing out, began writing:

[songs.i.like - october 2007]

she'd been in the desert for almost 10 months now, excavating the last ruins of a forgotten civilization. it wasn't just the natives who had abandoned the area, but so had previous archaeologists -- a lack of objective results, and eventually, funding. liz hadn't found anything of historical note so far, confirming the common belief that the civilization was lost to history. as she sat and removed her tools, the sand beneath her began to slip, and eventually give way until she found herself knee-deep in it. as she lifted herself out, the sand gave way to unveil a small hole that opened, revealing:

[songs.i.like - september 2007]

there's a degree of nostalgia at the end of every summer. the places you've been, the things you've seen, the people you've met -- they all continue to exist outside of you. somehow, it simultaneously makes us feel both insignificant in the face of it all and yet inextricably connected. or, maybe that's not you. maybe you'd just like to have life set in such a way that you can wake up to a sunset, have a fresh glass of orange juice, and look out over the horizon to see:

[songs.i.like - august 2007]

todd had been taught to expect the unexpected. despite acknowledging the intrinsic paradox, he held the sentiment close, especially during his formidable years -- from checking and re-checking blind spots in his truck to doing sets of curls with his set of home weights, in case he had to throw an attacker off his body. what began as boyhood advice had become ingrained as borderline paranoia, but not just in a negative sense. he would return from work and enter his house each day with the same reserved anticipation, contemplating the most appropriate reaction if his friends jumped out and surprised him with a party. even on the 364 days of the year that weren't his birthday, todd never let his guard down -- a paranoid opportunist, of sorts. fortunately, or unfortunately, for todd (entirely dependent upon how you choose to look at these sorts of things) thursday proved to be that anticipated day. instead of his friends surprising him, though, he was greeted by a quick piercing sensation, followed by a warmth that spread over his body like light, and as he turned around, he saw:

[songs.i.like - july 2007]

everything has a shortcut--a hack, a quick workaround, a secret path that will lead to the end faster (and with more ease) than the route of the masses. it was this basic assumption that provided all the groundwork gerald had needed to parlay general cleverness and wit into a profession, and a lucrative one at that. not a magician, a hustler, or a thief, he was unsatisfied with labels put on people with his skill set--or comparable to his, anyway. comparable--and contrast might be more accurate, given the relative disparity--because gerald had one faculty that they couldn't imagine, much less compete with:

[songs.i.like - june 2007]

she'd been bored in conversation for the last ten minutes, absent-mindedly twisting the stirrer in her glass and alternating responses between uninterested sighs--"what'd you say...mm hm...yeah"--and gazes past the man with the frumpy suit and too-tight tie that she was speaking to. it was during one of these gazes that they first made eye contact, from across the room, and soon they were making and breaking fully intentional accidental eye contact every few minutes. hyping himself up, damien thought he'd mustered the courage to approach her when he saw her abruptly grab her hat and coat and jot something on a napkin. to his surprise, she headed straight towards him, eyes locked on him even as she passed, and without saying a word, slipped the note into his jacket pocket and continued to the parking lot. after a few moments, damien unfolded the napkin, held it up, and saw written:

[songs.i.like - may 2007]

thomas wasn't the type to pursue a boondoggle. in fact, he'd never been late in 6 years of employment with the hamilton insurance co. but this morning was different; thomas had never felt this kind of compulsion--not as an insurance agent, not during a story-less college career, and certainly not as a painfully awkward high school student. thus, he reasoned, it could hardly be considered a boondoggle, and a single day of work was a minor sacrifice for the sake of this particular pursuit. with a notable lack of calculated risk, he broke into a full sprint down the block towards:

[songs.i.like - april 2007]

the deafening screech--notable not as much for its volume as for its relentlessness--eventually brought the entire village out of their homes. as they gathered towards the square, there they saw it. flailing, but not alive, and metallic, though not robotic, no one had ever seen anything like it. young zeke, realizing the opportunity to name the unknown, stepped forward and declared it:

[songs.i.like - march 2007]

no sooner had she awoken than the young girl was racing downstairs--two or three at a time--to see what had been left under the tree. a single box with her name on it, the perfect size and shape to be exactly what she had been hoping for:

[songs.i.like - february 2007]

the debut of songs.i.like hatched earlier this afternoon. both hen and chick are worn out from the day's festivities, but doing quite well.

[songs.i.like - january 2007]

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