I am not above excoriating myself for the amusement of my readers. Thus, I produce Exhibit A: my swizzle stick collection, amassed over several years of elders’ visits to hotel bars, airlines and casinos and preserved in a (now) vintage Levi’s denim drawstring pouch which could probably be sold on Ebay for at least $20, if I did that kind of thing – which I don’t. Exhibit B: two pieces of chewed gum, each tied safely in its own sandwich bag and labeled with a piece of masking tape indicating the date and the objet d’amour who gifted the gum that was subsequently chewed and stored away for posterity. Travis Nutt, Travis Smutt! He’s probably fat with ten children and debt. Exhibit C: dozens of journals filled with bubbly handwriting (mine), describing obsessions of the mind and heart, details of Plathological self-loathing and neuroticism long since left behind (obviously), and lists of ways in which I was determined at age 17 to change the world, make it better – and more importantly, to reinvent myself.
I’m far less sentimental today than I once was, which is why most of this stuff is being recycled, burned, donated and otherwise disposed of. A rolling stone lets go of her childhood memorabilia. Speak now if you are seeking microscopic ivory elephant statues that fit inside a hollowed-out soybean, various fanzines from early ‘90’s indie rockers, worry dolls, Russian reissues of Led Zeppelin Zozo from Eastern Siberia or a rainbow crocheted hackey sack from Portland’s Saturday Market.
For years, I’ve managed to dodge the dreaded task of sifting through the accumulated material of growing up and coming of age in a time when the physical universe was still observed and revered – times of photographs you could hold in your hands, journals, fanzines, handwritten letters, record albums, photo albums. . . all things I imagine will not be the burden or the fascination of adult children visiting their parents’ homes 15 years from now. My parents finally excavated my childhood bedroom – this, after years it served as a dumping ground for everything the family didn’t know what to do with. Naturally, I don’t take this personally or read anything into it. But here on the dawn of a new decade, the first 18 years of my life – the things I didn’t take when I moved east for college – are consolidated in these seven or eight boxes.
So goodbye childhood, goodbye 2009, goodbye ‘aughts.’ It’s been fun, but we’re ready for something new. Show us how it is. . .
