In the Summer time, nothing beats early evening bicycle rides around town. The other day, Pete and I bicycled to the Lighthouse and then to the river bed, an iconic landmark in my mind’s topography. I recall teenage summers spent endlessly walking, talking, and coming of age. All along the river bed, I experienced my first fickle crush. and my first hit of pot - I pretended to see the letters of the alphabet swirling about my head; I’d catch the letters in my cupped hands and then release them dramatically. I’ve always been prone to putting on a show. my beautiful friend Danielle always walked the river bed with me - she was a reckless poet - who later moved to Indiana to straighten out her life, and instead ended up stripping, getting hooked on drugs, and something about a prostitution ring. I haven’t spoken to her since I was 21 or so, and I really really wish to see or talk to her again. Under bridges, through sewer tunnels, kicking rocks, cracking jokes, fearless, and free. Today's river bed is filled with last season’s rain, and I sit on big sparkling white rocks, wearing my recently thrifted Versace denim jumper - an outfit I know I would have worn back then (though I would have been ignorant of the Versace label).
Memory is a way of holding onto the things you love, the things you are, the things you never want to lose. from ~ The Wonder Years
Memory... is the diary that we all carry about with us. ~Oscar Wilde, "The Importance of Being Earnest"
The past is never dead, it is not even past. ~William Faulkner