I just returned from my first morning walk in two months. It was glorious: the sun was shining, the birds were chirping, and the wind was blowing — bending the grass, and providing a touch of cool against the heat.

I saw one of Torey Lam's daughters. She saw me, too, but she had no idea who I was. She only saw some strange bearded man in an orange t-shirt, limping down the road.

The girl, about six years old, walked the railroad ties down the edge of her grandparents' driveway, arms out, balancing. She stopped when she reached the road. With much deliberation and care, she looked to the left and then to the right, and then she crossed the street. She stopped in the middle, and looked to both sides again before proceeding. On the other side, she fetched the newspaper, pivoted, and then — studiously ignoring my approach — she looked left and right before crossing to the center of the road. She looked left and right again, completed the cross, hopped on the railroad tie, and then balanced her way back down the lane.

Ah, what I could have told her (Danielle?) about her father.

As I walked, I remembered how Torey and I used to play as kids. I tried to compare it with how the kids I know play now. Then I tried to compare our play with my own current play.

When we were young, our play was unstructured. One of us would ride a bike over to the other's house and we'd knock on the door: "Can Torey play?"

We'd hop on our bikes and zoom down the lane. We didn't plan our adventures; we took turns suggesting them. "Let's go down to the big tree and look at the Playboys," Torey might say. "Let's build a fort," I might suggest. "Let's ride to the store." "Let's have a dirt clod fight." Mostly, though, we just rode around the neighborhood, doing nothing.

We might hop off our bikes to examine the strange markings on the road. "What do you think this means?" I'd ask, tracing the painted symbols with a stick. "I don't know," Torey'd say, pulling the bachelors buttons by their roots. I'd use my stick to pop tar bubbles in the road. We'd sit together, Indian-style, popping tar bubbles and saying nothing. Then one of us would hop on a bike and we'd both ride away to find something else to do.

When I think of my childhood, I relish these moments of unstructured play.

Now, as an adult, I make sure that I have lots of free time. But most of my free time is structured. I plan ahead to go see a movie, to read a book, to play bridge, to go out for dinner. I never just call up Dave or Mac or Joel or Andrew and say, "Hey, wanna sit around and do nothing?" But the thing is, maybe I should.

The times I feel happiest now are the times when I have no agenda.

For example, I loved my trip to Eugene to visit Paul last spring precisely because for 36 hours, I had no agenda. We just did whatever came to mind. When Andrew and I visited Dana in Minnesota, we did whatever came to mind. When Kris and I go on vacations together, we don't sign up for tours and the like. We just do whatever comes to mind.

It's great fun to get together with friends for games or for dinner, but I should make more of an effort to get together just to dink around.

Perhaps this is why I so enjoy playing with my friends' children. Kids don't have an agenda when they play; they make things up as they go along. They're learning creativity. As an adult, when I play with the kids, I feel like my mind has been liberated from the narrow confines of "this is how things are", "that is the way this thing works".

A toy motorcycle becomes an airplane, a Barbie doll is a submarine. Horses can fly, and so can Lego racers. A child's imagination is so much more unbridled than an adult's. It's a shame that as we grow older we lose our ability to "think outside the box".

It's a shame that our play has becomes so structured.

On this day at foldedspace.org

2005 — Yet Another CD Mix   Here's my lastest masterpiece, for which I have no name.

2003 — The Godfather   I watched the entire Godfather trilogy on my iBook recently, while laying in bed recovering from knee surgery. As I watched, I paused to take the occasional note.

2002 — Simon   On Wednesday, a mere two days after Satchel's death, Kris asked me to bring home Gordo, Custom Box's sole remaining shop cat.