Mike regrets the trips he didn’t take with Olivia. He remembers the various moments during their five-year relationship when he refused to take time off from his work to travel with her. His excuse was that he couldn’t afford to be away for more than a couple of days from his business, especially to a country lacking easy broadband connection. He had reluctantly done Barcelona for five days with her, unable to relax as he constantly looked for the next available moment to use his laptop. Mike remembers spending an entire day in the hotel doing work while Olivia, determined with her travel guide book, explored the city by herself. After that trip, Olivia would only ask half-heartedly if he’d like to go anywhere, having already made plans with co-workers to go to Chichén Itzá to see the Mayan ruins or to hike Machu Picchu in Peru. She would go on to other places in Europe, Africa, and Asia — with other friends or, in some cases, alone.

He finds it hard to believe that work meant so much to him in those days. Or that he was never excited about traveling with Olivia. Matching stamps on their passports, silly photos of each other in front of landmarks, glasses of wine at outdoor cafes, lovemaking in different time zones. What was there to avoid?

When it became apparent that his business was going to fail, Mike suggested to Olivia that they take a trip somewhere. He wanted to get away, he told her. Gain perspective, think about next steps. But it was too late. You should try going on your own, she would tell him, it’s better to clear your head that way. It hurt to be turned down, but he had yet to realize that he had been doing the same to her all these years. Another grievance, another stitch undone.

He barely makes rent. Taking a trip is out of the question. His passport needs to be renewed. And yet he has an intense desire to be somewhere warm. The idea of Central or South America excites him. Maybe even Africa. The very places that he once criticized for their unclean water and lack of modern cities. The places that Olivia gladly went and captured with her digital camera. He would be okay with physical discomforts, the language barriers, and the tourist traps. He wouldn’t need any connection or reception. If only he could see with his own eyes, up close, the things she saw and cherished.

It’s Thanksgiving and Mike is over at Robert’s place making the stuffing. Peeling and chopping chestnuts reminds him of a distant memory from his years in Korea. He must have been three years old and yet he can still remember enough to visualize the dense forest of chestnut trees on one side of the dirt road. He’s fascinated by the chestnuts, tightly covered in their spike-covered shell. He uses his feet to tear apart the skin, picking out the chestnut and putting it into his pocket. He wants to bring it home to his parents and have his grandmother steam it. Before he knows it, all the pockets of his overalls are packed with chestnuts.

It’s been over two hours since he’s been on the dirt road and he’s beginning to feel tired. He knows exactly where to go — at the end of the dirt road is where his friends John and Jacob live with their parents. Their family has a farm and they also harvest chestnuts. He wants to surprise his friends, run around with them, and tell them about his newest robot toy. Mike remembers how his grandparents on his father’s side lavished him with gifts every time they visited. It made him forget that it was his grandmother on his mom’s side who fed him and bathed him every single day. And it was this grandmother who dunked her hand into the toilet filled with his miniature feces to retrieve the action figure that he accidentally dropped in there while taking a dump and playing at the same time.

Mike sees John and Jacob’s parents and greets them with a bow. They are stunned to see him there. The reverend’s son, accompanied by nobody, several miles from town. They ask how he got there and he tells them that he just walked. He doesn’t understand what the problem could be. He asks if John and Jacob are home. The father quickly runs toward the house to make a phone call. Mike’s parents and grandmother must be freaking out and the entire town may be looking for him.

Mike is picked up by Bum-Soo, the church’s van driver. In the back of the van is his mother and grandmother, both eyes wet and relieved. Mike waves goodbye to John, Jacob, and their parents. He’s had a good time and only vaguely aware that he has caused any problems. Later on, everyone would marvel at how bold and adventurous he was to have trekked out so far on his own and how incredibly dangerous it was for a three year-old. His grandmother tells him that he could have been kidnapped by anyone and that it wasn’t uncommon for little kids to be snatched in the countryside. Everyone is thankful that Mike is okay, and in addition to the chestnuts he picked up, he now has a large bag that John and Jacob’s parents gave him to bring back.

Mike doesn’t know how he remembers all this, but it makes him love chestnuts that much more. He makes sure the stuffing has plenty of it. He tells Robert that the stuffing is going to be real good. And he wishes Olivia could see him now, no longer just “attending to the wine program” but actually getting his hands dirty in the kitchen.

Almost three years after I opened up a yellow notebook and started scribbling down notes from my readings, short story ideas, and bits of thought that might come in handy later, I finally filled out the last page a week ago. I was sad that after all this time, all I had to show for my non-computerized writing efforts was this thin volume. From looking at the dates, I can see the absence of writing for long stretches of time, with some months contributing no more than a few lines of random thought.

I’ll have to admit that in the past three years, a combination of work stress and an increasing love of relaxation (especially with my lovely girlfriend and our dog) has bred some complacency in my approach to writing. While I don’t regret the valuable time I’ve spent with Mel and Chocolate, I do find myself feeling guilty about indulging in hours of silly blogs, tweets, videos, and other distractions that take away from constructive work. So how to resolve this?

Little by little.

I’ve started the 2nd volume of PK’s Book of Literary Follies. The cover is orange on this one, and I’m hoping to fill it up in much less time than the first volume. I’ve resolved to fill up at least one page a day (it’s actually quite easy if I do it on my subway commute to work), and I think I’ll be more diligent about reflecting on things I read, watch, and actively observe. If there’s one constant thing that annoys me about my first volume, it’s the abundance of whining about my inability to write. I’d like to have more stuff about things I’ve seen or felt along with detailed descriptions in the new notebook.

By the way, I also started doing 100 push-ups a day last week. A few hours ago, I finished my 700th push-up. My approach? Increments of 10, 50 in the morning, 50 at night. It’s easy when you do it this way, and maybe this is the way to accomplish things — chip away at it persistently, day by day.