The past packed in boxes

Let me just tell you—from experience—exactly what a person prone to a crippling sense of regret and merciless self-criticism should never do: Sift through your personal archives of letters, pictures and papers.

But this is what I found myself doing yesterday, thanks to a Dad mandate that the junk in the basement of my parents house get organized and, where appropriate, thrown out. So I tackled the task that I should have done years ago, but couldn't bring myself to do, and with good reason. Because with the regret and self-criticism, I've combined an unbearable sense of nostalgia. Going through my old stuff is a painful excercise that I can't exorcise my desire for. I want to do it so bad even though it makes me feel so bad. Story of our lives, right?

Anyway, among some of the things in the musty basement boxes, I found the best college paper I ever wrote, and it was as good as I remembered. But the thrill of finding that was extinguished when I found my pathetic junior history thesis on '60's protest music. How I passed that course is an mystery. Guilford College should be ashamed of itself.

I found a bunch of old magazines that I was keeping for some reason. And while it was fun to see an issue of Rolling Stone with Living Colour on the cover, the only old magazine that I chose to keep was a '96 issue of Q with Jarvis Cocker on the front. A great find.

I found a couple of unstuck stickers that made me smile bigger than I could imagine stickers ever could: one decent-condition "Clinton/Gore '96" sticker (wish it was a '92, but this is still good) and TWO black and white, circa '92 WQFS stickers, both with a big and little version. Some stickers have a hot date with a guitar case.

I found a bunch of old letters and pictures, which provided a good dose of thrills, but a bigger dose of chills. For every good-friend letter and picture of me and Alex in the radio station, there was a picture or letter that held an equal dose of pain, a bit of past that was better left there. It's tough reading sweet and caring letters from people knowing that your friendship faded soon after. And the pictures: pure pain. There were shots that revealed me as a champion dork, with shirts and glasses that were far too large for me, with horrible haircuts that were wasted on that full head of hair.

I found an attempt at journal writing which never made it past page 5. Based on what was there, that was five pages too many.

I found an old birthday card from Emily. This was the low point. The card was so beautifully written, so adoring and appreciative and it was a too-vivid artifact that our love was as good and beautiful as I'd imagined, that I've never been loved anywhere near as deeply, never had anyone who understood or appreciated me nearly as much. It was the kind of love that seemed so obvious and right in those days, but I've never been able to find anything close to since. I closed the card, put it back in the envelope and put it at the bottom of the box feeling almost shaken with doubt that I would ever be loved so well again.

I found two drum keys and a cowbell holder. The latter find could prove to be significant.

I should torch all this stuff (note to Mom: will move stuff out of basement before torching). I should leave my history unstudied, and spare myself another round with this nostalgia in the future. But, like most people, I can't resist these peeks at my past, and so I'll keep these boxed archives of my mistakes, my former selves, and the love I'll probably never see an equal to. I'm not sure why I'll keep all these things, but I will, and I'm sure you understand why.