I realize that of late I have been inordinately focused on the future; I can't write a single entry without somehow mentioning Jerusalem (whoops!) or my lofty goals (here we go again) or how things will get better for me soon (sometimes I just have to say it). This is pretty hilarious to me, because although I've always been one to dream and plan and hope, however misguidedly, I've also always hated people whose every action is aimed at the distant future. I am always aware of the the many factors in life that are beyond my control, like the timing of my death or the deaths of those whom I love, natural disasters, world wars, the premature explosion of the sun, blah blah blah, and so in truth I am loath to live only for a far-flung future that is uncertain at best.
Moving right along to the actual point...
Today I lived in the past. Not recent past, not Jerusalem, Jordan, etc. I mean high school. I mean elementary school. I would even mean junior high if I had gone to junior high; thank goodness for small mercies.
I have been gradually packing up my bedroom over the past few days, strategically avoiding any items that would require me to make qualifying decisions based on sentimental value. I've been throwing letters and cards into boxes without the slightest glance at return addresses. I've been consolidating all my lotions and makeup and contact lens cases and Pez dispensers and shampoos. I've kept the washer and dryer in constant use. I've done everything that's simple and surface-level. But today I went into my room armed with a green garbage bag and a huge cardboard box (from some cheesecake company that apparently makes white chocolate peanut butter cheesecake- uhmmmm, yes please!) and went all soullessly cut-throat on my earthly possessions. I found boxes that hadn't been emptied since I moved back home from the Renfrew house with Nik and Mads. I found roughly 4,000 bank statements, still sealed. I found all of my Jason Lang scholarship letters and certificates. I found my high school diploma. I found souvenirs I bought in Italy. I found concert recordings from three summers of SCF Choir Camp. I found shoes that I forgot I owned. I found journal entries written on scrap pieces of paper, wedged between empty cd cases. I pretty much felt like Lara Croft by the time I left for work.
But the important thing is, all this home base tomb raiding gave me the momentum and sheer force of will necessary to face the ultimate nostalgic catalyst: the yearbook. Now, I only have yearbooks from grades 11 and 12, and it's not like I feature prominently in them or think that they adequately reflect what my CMHS PVA/FI experience was all about, but they were a poignant read nonetheless. I read every comment, looked at every page. I tried very hard to remember people's names. I recalled a landslide of inside jokes. I remembered plot lines to numerous terrible plays I wish I could forget now. I recognized faces and marvelled at how easy it is for people to move from obscurity to prime importance to insignificance in my life.
And then I found the Thom Collegiate yearbook from 2001-2002. I had flipped through half of it before I realized that I wasn't actually in it, and that all the comments written therein were addressed to my brother. Good one, Nans. Way to do math. You were in grade eight when this high school yearbook was bound. The funny thing was, I had almost memorized the layout of those pages. I had kept that yearbook in my room since before we moved to Calgary. This is because in my grade nine year at Thom, I used it as a reference guide for all the hotties in the grades ahead of me. Looking through it this morning, my eyes knew exactly where to look on every page for the face of a guy worth lusting over. Their names even sounded familiar, and I know I never talked to these boys. I realized two things: 1) adolescent girls are THE LAMEST THING EVER and I am their queen, and 2) wait, I'm still awesome regardless.
Beside the Thom yearbook were three binders: one from high school film class (featuring a cut-out from a Gap men's undershirt ad with the word "boyfriend" scrawled across it in my handwriting), one containing my grade four creative writing, and one full of Pokemon cards. [I kept two of the three, and you get to guess which ones. Turn this blog upside down to reveal the correct answer.]
I spent approximately an hour reading through the stories I wrote as a nine-year-old. One was told from the perspective of a muskrat musician. Another was a pre-teen poli-drama about the daughter of a fictional US president. What I love most about young writers is that they think a page and a half of hand-written, double-spaced material constitutes a complete chapter. Oh wait, no, scratch that. I love most the names they give their characters. For instance, I named a character in one of my opuses Jeroldine. Yes. Actually.
Well, I'm going to head to bed now. More on this later.
You know you love me.
xo xo -
Jeroldine
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