Packing up the rest of my stuff this weekend at the old place, I found myself at that ever important last stage: deciding which pictures and letters of my past to keep, and which to just smile nostalgically at, and then rip up so that no trash-diver could ever make sense of it.
It's strange, when you realise, that some of this stuff has followed you around for the past twenty years, stored away in a trunk, only to be looked at whenever you move and you're deciding what to toss. Stuff from old lovers, old friends (and, come to think of it, some of them really are old by now. Sigh.), pix from your glory days when sex was so easy (well, easier) to come by, hangovers were for other people, gray was the colour of your once-white socks and not your hair. So, Saturday, I spent a few hours parsing through the dross of my past, thinking "gee, that's L. from Moncton" only to look at the back of the photo booth portrait and go, "oops, that was actually C. from Ottawa."
BTW, did every girl in the mid-80s have Robert Smith hair, or was it only those I courted? Personally, I went for the David Sylvian look, which worked rather well.
posted by Michel @ 9:54 AM
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