A recent event led me to conduct something of a retrospective of my old work.  The rehash forced me to realize that I don’t recognize the person who wrote these things.

I believe this bit of Los Angeles observation from 2004 will do just fine as an example:

I heard once a woman’s face melted.  Right there, the friend of a cousin of a friend, said she just started bubbling.  He or she saw the whole thing.  Apparently this story teller, however hypothetically or unbelievable the connection to me, saw her face pool around her seven thousand dollar shoes.  His thrice detached companion, my friend, told me the story which, of course, I discredited with my ninth grade semester-long chemistry knowledge.

“You think I’m dumb enough to believe that?  Just because it’s called plastic surgery doesn’t mean it’s actually plastic.”  I tugged at my ultra-hip polo shirt.  “Dumbass.”

Who is this “I” and where was he hanging out?  When I first began writing, it seemed the work produced would act as a time capsule – a comfortable space to which I could return to recount memories, relive them.  Though quite some time has passed and this story in question is one of inconsequential value, I still have no recollection of the event.  (Or much of my time in Los Angeles, as far as specifics go.)  It’s filed under “Personal Essays”, but nothing about what precedes or follows those two paragraphs feels personal.  I draw the conclusion that I need to reconnect with this person and perhaps a return to the blog format is a proper conduit to do so.  I mean, honestly, I’ve never worn a polo shirt in my life.

  • Calendar

    • November 2017
      M T W T F S S
      « Mar    
  • Search