confession: i’ve thrown out a thousand photos in the past 24 hours from the 1998-2004 (pre-digital) era. most of the tossed photos include people whose names i can’t remember. i kept the photo of the girl whose name i can’t remember but whose face immediately fills my heart with all the love i felt for her at first sight. i knew her for only a couple months. she had a boyfriend with whom she was traveling across the united states. later i learned that she dumped the boyfriend after returning home to australia. if i remembered her name i’d google her, facebook search her, and online stalk her until i found a way to say hello. i’m glad i don’t remember her name. she belongs to a past i had forgotten until i found her face in a photograph. i wonder if she has a photograph of me. even if she remembered my name, she wouldn’t be able to find me. the name she’d remember doesn’t belong to me anymore.
confession: when i see the sickly skinny photos of me from 15 years ago, i want to be that skinny again, even though i know that kind of skinny isn’t sexy and i know that i was physically run-down and very ill and i know the only way to be that skinny again is to get that sick again and that even wanting to be skinny like that is sick…but damn….
confession: i miss exactly zero of the ex-boyfriends in photographs from 1998-2004.
confession: i miss less than two of my ex-girlfriends from that same time period.
confession: while traveling all over the world through two decades, i took particularly poor landscape photos that were extremely easy to toss in the garbage.
confession: sorting through boxes of old photographs is not a restful or enjoyable experience for me. many people in the photographs have died in the past 18 years, all too young and too soon…except my grandmother. grandma knew she was gonna die. grandma was ready. the last time i visited her (two and a half months before her death) she told me to take anything i wanted from her basement. i took two feather pillows she had stuffed from her own hens. 13 years later, i prop myself against grandma’s feather stuffed pillows when i read at night.
confession: i had a box of vcr tapes of my dance performances from my twenties. i never watched them. not once. i kept them in a box i refused to open but moved from apartment to apartment for all these years. i opened the box yesterday. i left the unlidded box in the middle of floor and walked by that opened box at least two dozen times before tossing the box this afternoon. the last time i performed onstage i didn’t know it would be my last dance performance because i had already committed to perform again the next season. i didn’t know i’d quit after a month of rehearsals. because i loved dancing, i didn’t know how much i hated performing until i quit. the best gift i gave my inner (and outer) dancer was quitting the stage.