There was an un-emptied box sitting next to a lamp in my front room. I had not unpacked it. It was small and looked like it was collected from my car, so I never really paid it any heed. What? I thought it was all empty Go Girl cans. Last night in a state of inebriated humor, I decided to rifle through it. What a treasure trove I did find.
I found cards from as long ago as my 8th grade year. I found the funeral pamplet for the poor girl who was killed by two drugged out mexicans when she was in 8th grade. Although I felt no sympathy or sadness then, I am a different person now and I reflected on how tragic that actual episode was. I found an envelope of pictures from my 6th grade Catholic school field trip to Point Reyes. In it was another girl who drowned in the Russian River when she was in 8th grade. Her sister who dove in to save her, also drowned. Then the memory of when I was eating drunkenly at Denny’s back in ’01 and that same girls youngest sister was the waitress. I remember then feeling a sort of sadness for the young girl, and did when I saw the picture. I reflected on what a rough year that was, multiple core teachers, one of whom was the Mom of Raina. That was the year I started to disassociate with the rest of Society. That was the year I knew I was truly alone in a fucked up world.
This is not where this post is going. Those memories aside, I found cards upon cards, from ex girlfriends from co-workers. I found the first citation for disturbing the peace my high school punk band received. I found my certificate of completion of drivers training course from when I was 15. I mean really, this was pretty crazy for me and brought back a raging waterfall of emotions. Thankfully I have learned to feel and was able to be present with the tsunami of ethereal remembrance.
I found some baseball cards too. One was a topps card of Vida Blue from the Giants. A topps Bo Jackson rookie card also graced the box. As well as some a DAT tape of some recordings I did when I was in college, my scientific calculator, a medal from a Bike Race I had placed second in, some stickers, my SAT reports as well as a college transcript.
It was all very interesting to me and took me down a path of reflection I think I really needed. The lengths of growth I have achieved are not perceived merely by looking in the mirror. I once elicited in my first band “the past is definition to where the future lies”.. And that is truth. Because without the past I would not be who I am today.
The best part of the time capsule I found was two binder paper pages of poems I had written when I was younger. They were quite illuminating and reminded me where some of my anger comes from. See, after living for so many years, anger sometimes gets diluted in the mass transit of the everyday. Drive to work, work a day, drive home, walk the dog, eat a food, drink a drink, listen to a music, play a music, drink a water, go to sleep. Sometimes my day is so routine I want to walk out onto the i5 and just get done with it. However, I love my dog too much and have much more to do here. I don’t write nearly as much as I used to so it was a good reminder of the motivation that used to drive me.
Here are two of the poems I found:
They caught the last poor man
on the poor man’s vacation.
They cuffed him
and they dragged his black ass
down to the station.
They said “ok, the streets are safe now.
All your pretty white children can come out and see spot run.”
And they came out,
and they looked around,
and they didn’t see no one.
But my country tis of thee
to take shots at each other on the talk show tv.
Why don’t you just go put out the sun?
Because you’ll never live long enough
to undo everything
they’ve done to you.
This one is my favorite. It is also untitled.
When I look around, I think this is..
This is good enough.
And I try to laugh
at whatever life brings.
Because when I look down
I just miss all the good stuff
and when I look up
I just trip over things.
Godspeed readers. This redbearded cat loves you.
Ps. Here is some Descendents influenced goodness in refernce to the bad ass baseball player I mentioned earlier. Chad Price is not as bad ass as Scott Reynolds, but real men write their own jams and thus you have :