Meditating on the way to work about my book of summer

On the way to work, thinking about Salman Rushdie still and his book, “Joseph Anton”, and I started to think about the summer I was sixteen, the summer of 1989. I was in my third year of high school, my parents had decided to move from Scarborough to Newmarket, and I was an angry, angst ridden teenager. I had a body of friends unlike anything I can compare to now. And I also had my first real girlfriend. I spent that summer having a fantastic time. I don’t remember sleeping that much, because if I wasn’t in trouble, I was making trouble, and if I wasn’t doing any of that, I wrote about everything. We even joked about it as friends, I remember. “Summer of ‘89, you should call it.”
I still have all of my notes and journals from that time. I still have all my notes and journals from the time before that and the time after that right up to now. I’ve kept them as an archive. For posterity, if I may be so bold. I don’t have anything much from either one of my parents or grandparents in the way of mementos. I want to have my notes and my journals so that maybe, when my kids are older and I’ve passed on, they can read what I’ve written down, my thoughts, my experiences, and maybe relate to what it is they have felt, and we can be connected. Kind of my way of living forever. I’ve played with the idea of scanning every page and turning it into PDF files and storing them away on a flash drive and maybe some archive quality DVDs and then sealing them up in some kind of clear, acrylic block and having it as a paperweight in my desk with a sign on it that reads “Only break open in the event of my death”.
I have this image of my current desk, in the basement, tucked away in the corner next to an old bookcase my dad got out of the garbage but I kept because I’ve always wanted to finish the bookcase and the desk so they look like they come from a set (because they look to be nearly of the same construction). I’ve already got an ancient laptop setup there, with a ledger next to it where I log my daily word count. Now, I imagined that desk forty or fifty years from now, in the same corner, of the same house, with four whole lives lived around it, and my life having ended, and that acrylic block is sitting there, next to the same, ancient laptop and a ledger, a ledger I kept up to date up until the day I died.
My effects are being collected, my son, Reid, cracks open the acrylic to get at the DVD and the flash drive and gets frustrated quickly because he can’t figure out how to get anything from it. Elena comes to the rescue and figures it out, based on what it is she learned from me by watching me her whole life – in my mind’s eye, Reid watched me but wasn’t absorbed by me the same way Elena did. And when she does figure it out, the first thing she falls upon is “The Summer of 89”.
At this point, in real time, I was almost at work and started to come out of my trance.
What do you want to do with this image? I asked myself. Do want Elena to read it?
Salman Rushdie, in his work “Joseph Anton” made mention of “Midnight’s Children” being the work he had to write so he would be able to write everything else. When I parked my car, I did so with one last thought before having to turn them to work – if I write this book of summer I’m thinking about, does that mean I’ll be able to do the same thing? I’d love to be able to spend the rest of my life just writing.
But, by that point, the spell had been broken, the meditation was over, and I went to work, thinking of brake plates and hardware and accessories and ontime deliveries and delivery performance and inventory levels and year end inventory and spreadsheets and shipments and everything else.

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