Chrisonomicon

Saturday, April 28, 2001

I wore shorts today. It was refreshing to feel the setting sun on the backs of my legs as I walked Sumo around the developing neighborhoods. As sad as I am to see them plowing the field behind my house for a thoroughfare, it will be nice to have a new route to walk. I caught a glimpse of myself in a passing car, and realize that I squint a lot. Perhaps I should start wearing my sunglasses more often. Straighten up. Stop squinting. Get a haircut.

This morning, in the shower, I remembered writing my first journal entry sometime in 1991. I was 12, and wrote about a trip to the swimming pool on the air force base with some friends. The sun simmered us to golden browns like our beer-battered onion rings. Green grass between our toes. Strawberry Mentos and the smell of chlorine.

Perhaps it was the water cascading down my face, or the fumes that fill my room from paint and glue, that brought back the memory. Writing in that moss-green book was what started this. It's funny to think I dug it out of a dumpster on base, exploring with my little brother; we were always into scavaging old office materials from the various military bureaus.

He's still a pack-rat, but somewhere along the way I lost the hoarding instinct. I'll throw things out left and right. The surprising thing is, I haven't regretted any of it. Perhaps it's not really throwing anything away. I suppose somewhere in the recesses of my mind, I hold a faint belief that somewhere, there is a kid digging through a dumpster, looking for treasure. I picture a kid that looks kind of like me.

Maybe it's a way of keeping in touch with my past. I've been trying to recapture that thrill of delight that comes with discovery, the delicious flavor of owning newness. Tossing things into the garbage is almost like giving back to myself. Maybe throwing something away is the only way to keep it forever.