Subject: The Past is Lizards all the way Down
Beloved reader, favorite reader, reader with good hair and remarkable style—dear reader, with your understated wit and winning smile, your laugh the envy of sitcoms. Oh! reader, have I told you yet how you always bring the best dish to potlucks, and—don’t tell anyone else this—but I really like you best of all, only I don’t tell you often enough because I wouldn’t want to hurt anyone else’s feelings. (We like to imagine that I’m writing for your benefit and pleasure but the truth in these relationships is that it’s really all about me, so the least I can do is butter you up a little bit.)
There is this impression that writing requires a certain ambiance. A room of one’s own, for starters, but a parapet or rough-hewn cabin on a long abandoned coast is preferable. I am here to report that I am writing you from the middle seat of a plane, from within the fart-cloud of the twitchy bald man in front of me. Either environment is not nearly as important as we have been led to believe, or I am simply as dedicated as you are handsome. I think, given that the latter paints me in a favorable light (and you as well, might I add), it’s best to assume that’s the case. I am a martyr for your entertainment and delight, and you a comfort to my weary, brave eyes.
I am hurtling through the air at great speeds, quite literally weighed down by the baggage of my past; the backpack stowed beneath the seat back in front of me contains no less than eight journals filled with my most mortifying writings and drawings circa 1994-2007. Thirteen years worth of incriminating information that I am smuggling out of storage from my parents’ home. There is a small but not negligible chance that my parents have seen these journals—that, although we will never mention it, my parents are aware of a choice set of explicitly pornographic self-portraits, drawings of anthropomorphic dicks ejaculating into their own anuses, “poems” about dead kittens juxtaposed with diagrams of oral sex, or, somewhat less mortifying but just as worrisome, a series written at age 8 in which my mother is killed in various and assorted ways, including being torn apart by a guinea pig in a coliseum for my amusement. Even worse—in an entry on my 14th birthday, I wrote, “France is a beautiful city.”
If this plane crashes, I can only hope that it is engulfed entirely in flames. If not, someone will have to reconstruct the grisly scene of death and they will find my bright blue backpack amongst the wreckage. It will be returned to my family. “It’s all she had with her at the time of death, these, her most treasured and valued possessions,” they’ll say. My family, in their grief, will peruse my journals with utmost care and attention. They’ll read the 31 poems about lizards and they will feel closer to me, as if I were still there with them. They’ll find my infographic of things you probably shouldn’t put in butts, and chuckle a little. “Oh, she was a little weird, but so funny.” Then they’ll get to the diary detailing each and every of my early sexual experiences, the drawings of anime characters touching each other’s boobs, the list of every single kinky activity my 18 year old mind could imagine, along with my level of interest.
They won’t be laughing then. Or crying, for that matter. They’ll go somber and quiet, and be forced to reckon. “This… this is what our daughter loved most in the world. Bodily fluids, lizards, and violence. And god, was her sense of geography terrible.” Of course, I can’t ignore the not-negligible possibility that my parents have already read these journals during the 13 years they’ve been laying in the basement. There is a not-negligible possibility that every time I introduce my parents to a new partner, they wonder, “Does this one also spit in our beloved child’s mouth?”
The Past: Excerpts
1995
A red notebook adorned with Lisa Frank stickers, peace signs, and a velvet pouch. One of my only journals that is more than 50% full. Seven pages of lizard-related content. The rest is fantasy stories and sensitive environmentalist poems.
I have a sentance I really like. “A thin sheet of mail covered there shirt, there sword in there scabbord which dangled on there belt of leather, mocosins opon there feet with buitiful twocan feathers they found in the rain-forest on their ankles.” I really like this sentance, very descriptive and real. I feel like there right in front of me when I reread this sentance. I can’t write any more about it couse it’s so good. Sometimes I feel like can I die just for today. I wish I could have a cat. I wish I would have a dream tonight. I can name a bunch of middle earth creachers orcs, halflings, goblins, hobgoblins, balrogs, and much more.
1996
A purple notebook with a picture of a gecko taped to the front. Words such as "Spirit", "Care", "Peace", "Love", and "Recycle" written on the cover. The burning question contained within seems to be, "Are people good or bad?". Like most journals to follow, it is only about 30% full.
People are not the dominaters of this Universal kingdom. We may not judge animal brains by how they do people things. Many people are the weeds, many grasses are the trees. People are said to reason, If so more people should use it.
1997
A photo of a loon on the cover. Filled with tediously informative maps of fantasy islands, including geography, history, population. The influence of LOTR runs deep. One short story about a Fuji Anole having a romance with a Basilisk. Several short stories in which my mom and her boyfriend Ron end up dead/imprisoned/permanently humiliated.
Way up high the phoenix soars
Remember me, he whispers remember
The great magical beasts, keep our lives
living. When we die the magic
Dies and sad it is so
Keep us from leaving
Please keep from grieving
We’ll always be with you.
2000
Oh shit — I'm a young teen now and you can really tell. We have here a Little Prince diary with a lock on it to keep prying eyes away from my pages full of hearts, flowers, bubble letters, and snarky asides. This journal marks a time in my life that will be remembered with pain and anguish by those who knew me then, because it is from the summer I got to go on a scholarship trip to Europe with my French class. I returned from that trip speaking in a terrible British accent. If you have ever heard me attempt to speak in any sort of accent, you can easily guess how just absolutely painful those months were for my friends and loved ones.
I ended up rooming with two very popular girls during this trip. My journal reflects this, as by the end of it I am writing judgemental comments in the margins in gel pen, and talking about which boys are "ssssssssso cute". Methinks I doth protest too much in these pages, though; I bring up accidentally walking in on my roommates naked several times and how "embarrasing" it was and how I "saw more than I ever wanted to." (Ed. note: I would tentatively describe myself as bisexual a year later, in 2001)
Me, Mel, and Nat took a shower together and it sounded rather gay (We had our swimsuits on of course!!) Nat was making “ooohhh… ahhhh…” noises and me and Melanie were acting out a conversation with Robert. (“Oh Robert! Don’t leave me now! I was just about to take off my swimsuit!” “Well, I already took mine off.”) etc… etc. Buh Bye! (Natalie and Melanie are such sweeties.)
- I kind of like Isaac he’s sssso funny (he’s a cutie 2)
- Trey is a cutie but he also does weed
2002
Non-descript journal. Written during my time at summer camp, and full of teenage musings on unconditional love and beauty. I try to pass of my descriptions of my friend Katy as "the most beautiful person I've ever met" as objective and platonic but it's pretty obvious that I am in crush-town.
Life Goals:
- Become a photographer
- Move to Switzerland
- Fall in love
- Go Skinny Dipping
- Live in a treehouse
- Drink Pina coladas
- Eat at the fanciest restaurant in Europe
- Learn bird calls
- Never tell someone else’s secret
- Get a nice car
Next month: Will I share some of the SPICY journals from 2004-2007??? Stick around to find out. 🍆💦🍆 XXX Elder Teen Years XXX 🍑🍑🍑
Ask a Gecko some Cats 🐈🐈
Unfortunately, the gecko was not available to answer your questions this month. He is shedding and declined to comment.
Dear Gecko,
My wifey and I are faced with a predicament: Uproot ourselves from our beloved community to pursue a career opportunity that could provide us with long-term financial security, or stay in a our local, a place of friendship and much wonder, but financially tenuous prospects?
Sincerely,
In mental anguish currently in Sebastopol
Dear IMACIS,
The cats in their oracular wisdom elected to select a tarot card for you to contemplate.
Stevie takes her job seriously and selects two possible cards to divine your fate.
Griff pauses to contemplate the two cards that Stevie chose.
After much deliberation, Griff chooses the card to his right.
Knight of Pentacles - Reading
The cat on this card gazes across the table at a bowl of snacks that the human is eating. The cat knows exactly what she wants, it's the bowl sitting right in front of her but just out of reach. However, the snacks aren't really that far out of reach, and with just a little bit of effort and cleverness, those treats could be hers.
You are that cat. Do you have the audacity to grab that tempting bowl of snacks?
Want to ask the gecko cats whoever is available some advice? 🙏🏼 Have a burning hot take you need the world my 16 other subscribers to know about? 💥💥💥Send a letter to the editor: nome@nome.land