Age ten early summer vh1 on the tube in the den sea monkeys half-glowing in their specialized aquarium underneath the green shade of the office lamp (the kind bookkeepers and card players used in movies from and about the 1940s) varying itchy shades of tan upholstery scratching bare legs on the couch eating ice cream sandwiches (the neopolitan kind, chocolate part eaten first to get it out of the way, strawberry best for last) drawing in a mead notebook with a sticker of a bear wearing braces on the front. What was I even doing then and why did I have to perform that ritual there nightly? It seemed so beautiful and rapturous, like once I found something in that combination of objects, sounds and circumstances and if I did it over and over I could unlock it again and slip inside. I was acutely aware of childhood's impending end but also aware of lingering childhood. I occupied a liminal space throttling the gulf between and it was nostalgia and hope for the future mixed.
I've tried to write about being ten that summer at so many different stages of my life, with fluctuating degrees of understanding, never fully achieving the desired results-- to feel that way again.
August 13, 2009
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