It is singular how soon we lose the impression of what ceases to be constantly before us. A year impairs, a luster obliterates. There is little distinct left without an effort of memory, then indeed the lights are rekindled for a moment—but who can be sure that the Imagination is not the torch-bearer?
Memories fade as time rolls on. I have been sitting here for a few minutes ruminating on events from a happier day, thinking about events in my childhood, my teenage years. Thinking about people I knew back then. About things that happened, the fun we had. About being a pushy, loud, obnoxious, stoned brat with thick glasses and grubby mangy looking hair.
I think about some friends who I haven’t seen in years, some so long that it takes seeming ages to even remember names. Faces are more distinct, them I remember clearly. Eric… I can’t remember his last name now, we used to hang out a lot when we were 12 and 13. We were the biggest Jethro Tull fans, used to hang out and listen to Tull all day. We were dungeons and dragons players, we would play that and Melee and Risk a lot, along with the occasional game of diplomacy, along with my cousin bill and one or two other people.
I think about the times a little after that, when we’d drink beer and smoke and whatnot, listen to loud evil music in the woods, owned by some oddly named person who lived a block away, along with other people, Mark and Paul T. (no last names given) Paul and Joe S., Stacey A., Kevin K., a few others.
We would listen to Led Zeppelin, Van Halen, Black Sabbath, The Who, stuff like that. I remember first hearing about Iron Maiden, Judas Priest, and Metallica hanging out there. We also loved listening to comedy. I, for one, found out about George carlin hanging out there, listened to Robin Williams and Eddie Murphy stand up routines.
Hell, we even built stuff. We were industrious little bastards. The fort we built was strong. Walls made of logs and mud. Strong enough that when the people who owned the land finally tried to take it down, they could not actually do it by hand. They had to bring in a caterpillar backloader to finally take it down. It had a firepit, which as I recall (again I could be wrong) was a partially buried barrel, or some such similar construction. Made it harder to see from the street, which was good for us.
To this day, when I smell wood burning, it takes me back there, to that happy place.
We were at one point able to run a plug from some neighbors house, unbeknownst to them so we could use lights if we chose, or to plug in a radio, if the batteries were running low. Talk was bandied about for going out, pooling money together, and getting a little mini fridge to keep the beer cold during the summer. That may have just been a drunken conversation I had with one of the denizens of the woods, or it may have been a real plan, I do not recall. Being high as I was back then does have it’s drawbacks. 🙂
We had a track where we put burms up for the guys who rode bikes, had ramps for jumping…
We had fun.
I really don’t know the point of this reminiscing. That past is gone, and to be honest I was something of a schmuck back in the day, I am kind of embarrassed by some of the things I did. But that’s OK. If you aren’t a little non plussed at the very least by some of the stuff you did, either you haven’t grown up or you simply haven’t lived.
That’s it from, America. Go to sleep.