"Come walk with me, in forests of azure, pretty girly" was what he said to me, the night we finally spoke. Admittedly a perceptive and catchy pick-up line. It was the summer I was obsessed with The Doors, so of course it had to be fate, (or possibly my t-shirt, or the fact that I spent every camp mealtime sneaking soulful glances in his direction.) Dream Boy, with his salon-set dreadlocks, copy of Helter Skelter crammed into his back pocket and seemingly endless supply of pot, was in my eyes, equal parts crunchy, sophistication, and hip. He almost got me killed that summer, with his arrogant trespassing on mentally unsound, Vietnam vets abandoned sandpits, our illegal skinny dipping in reservoirs, midnight rides in stolen canoes down unfamiliar rivers, Beastie Boys concert where I was lost and repeatedly crushed by sweaty thugs in a mosh pit. Ah, memories. Things I've completely forgotten until today, thank goodness! I've spent the better part of the day cleaning the house. Really trying to get rid of crap. I came across so many boxes of letters, journals, scrapbooks, manuscripts, photos, poems, and sketches, and am attempting to ditch the actual trash...which is truly, a pretty hefty percentage. I mean, do I really need a butterfly made out of a broken guitar string and some boy's hair? Or three hundred magazine clippings on The Cure? How about a collage of Starburst wrappers? Piles of junior high lab reports with great covers, but not-so-great content? Lists of possible names for future pets and children (in that order)? Some things, I'll certainly keep. Sweet things, nostalgic things, things that had meaning...but out go the random bottle tops, movie tickets and horoscopes that are taking up valuable memory space. Pack rat no more!
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