Something Old

In a surreal moment last night, I ordered a ticket for the Cracker/Camper van Beethoven show. At the Crocodile. In Seattle.

It seemed an appropriate birthday present to myself. I’m going to visit the Emerald City for almost two weeks in February, which includes a lengthy stay at the Green Tortoise hostel in downtown Seattle. If I cook and clean for two hours a day, I stay for $50 for the whole damn trip, free breakfast included. It’s not the Ritz, but it’s definitely copy.

Forecast there for the next 8 weeks: 50 degrees, rain. Give me a cup of good espresso and sign me up.

Moving involves downsizing, and a lot of it. When my parents moved, they dumped all my childhood stuff on me that I had to sort through and decide what to do with. Most of it got thrown out.

I have a million photographs in boxes and boxes, stacks of albums. Last night I was ripping through them, ankle deep in outcasts, picking only prime pieces. I have this obsession with media, with freezing time. As I pored through all these boxes, I found audio, video, sketches, photographs, words – all trying to hold on to that exact moment. For a while I carried around a tiny tape recorder and constantly interviewed people. When I was in my car, I’d set up my minidisc and turn the drive into a monologue. I still do that sometimes. I wonder if it detracts from being present in the moment or helps me experience it more fully. It's certainly not very Zen.

It was a toss up with photographing shows for a while. Sometimes I felt myself learning the musicians, watching their moves so closely so I could capture it on film. It felt weird to go to a show without my camera. But then I felt like it was taking away from the experience so I stopped. I still watch shows and hear the shutter in my head of when I would have taken a picture. A lot of times I wish I had.

But those weren’t the photos I was ripping through and tossing. So many photos from high school, from college – you could look at the pictures and simultaneously listen to those little recorded tapes for a full multimedia experience. A few weeks ago I finally got a battery for my little camcorder that I haven’t been able to use in years. Without the battery, I couldn’t turn it on, so the tape trapped within went unviewed. When I finally got it running again, I watched the video. It was Mighty Purple playing a sold out show at Toad’s Place in New Haven -- the Bohica record release. I was sitting on the stage between the monitors videotaping. Kids in the front wearing flannel shirts, Doc Martens, moshing to “Wail”. It was 1993.

Part of me wanted to climb inside the photographs for one minute, just to touch that world for one second. Sophomore year of college. Rolls and rolls of film of my Japanese twin Eisuke and I, hiding in my womb of a room, speaking our half-sentences. Sprawled on the floor, his blue hoodie covering his eyes, making me listen to Mogwai, blowing bubbles into the smoky air. My feet up on the window sill, hair in braids, making him read the Japanese newspapers to me. He called me his Soul Sistah. There was always candles, there was always Camel Lights. It was always warm and dark.

With just the photos I could romanticize that time, idolize him, be in love with that slice of my life. But then I look at the photos and read the journals with the same date -- all those words about loving someone so much it hurt, and resenting them because they tried to save you from yourself.

The manic pictures from later on, when there were 15 or 20 people in my dorm room -- I don't even remember these people. I don't recognize their faces. It's bizarre. But the videos are priceless, running around the streets of New Haven, getting kicked out of stores that don't even exist anymore, all the shows, the parties.

My life right now is so tame. I have no idea how I survived 18-24. No wonder I'm so exhausted.