Naked in a Communist Flag

Continuing my recent fascination with the past, I opened The Toolbox tonight.

For over ten years now, I have owned a toolbox that had a lock on it, keeping all my most private items safe from prying eyes (with the wandering pupils mostly belonging to my father). It's been a couple of years since I've even thought about it. I figured with everything that's been happening recently, I might as well open it up.

The jewelry is on top.

None of it is worth anything to a pawn shop. But it's an invaluable link to the Old Me. There's my high school ring, the ring that my pal Whip gave me for Strength and Everlasting Protection (her parents were hippies), and the piece of jewelry I received from a boy that he slipped on my finger at a restaurant one balmy summer night. There are a couple pairs of earrings my mom bought me from France that make my ears hurt, too (which means they aren't made of a precious metal like those dirty frogs told her they were).

Right now, I'm wearing all of the rings, a necklace, one pair of earrings, and have the rest of the treasures balanced on my thighs. Having properly outfitted myself for the expedition, I am ready to dig further into my history.

The pictures are next. There aren't as many of them as I thought there would be. These are the ones that my parents would have locked me up for taking...among the most notable are me in a bikini armed with squirt guns and fierce sunglasses, a group photo of scantily clad youths on a pool table, and me wrapped in a communist flag.

Naked, that is. The photo is of me, sans even one stitch of clothing, wrapped in a bright red communist flag. I am sitting on the piano bench of the Kerr home, straddling it, and there is a look on my face that would make any respectable woman blush. The girl in the photo is daring someone to take the flag off and help themselves to what is theirs, hers, and everyone else's underneath the premise of communism. "Thank you, Karl Marx!" some young man would say in PhotoLand, "I shall fight for glory and a united world between this girl's milky white..." You get the idea. It's a slutty picture, mostly because it pretends to be so innocent. Those are the worst kind.

Some diary entries that I read are strikingly similar to the shit that I write on this blog everyday. Silly me, I thought that these ideas were fresh and new to this cranium, but I've been thinking them since I was 13. I told myself to remember that this life is worth living, and that there is so much wonder to behold. Whether it was in Mister Langner's eighth grade math class, or at Cherry Creek Mall when the boys were alternating between rollerblading and hugging us in attempts to snap our bras, the joy was there. That girl who was writing in the pink, flowery diary knew that something special is out there, everywhere. All you have to do is let it reveal itself.

It's nice to know I haven't changed that much.

It works the opposite way, too. The things that bothered me then are the same things that really get me today. I hated it when people were dishonest or just following the crowd. I also hated returning people's phone calls, which I still despise (getting me to check my voicemail is like pulling teeth). When I felt neglected or unloved, I withdrew and lost the ability to see the color in the picture. And the color was difficult to get back, as I recall.

Also, suitors take note: in '93, my dream date with my then-boyfriend was holing up in a video game with seats that allowed us to race cars in semi-privacy. It also allowed us to make out inbetween games rather inconspicuously. That hasn't really changed, either. Who wants to take me to the arcade?!

I just took a quick writing break to focus on a few letters from a friend I've known since before The Toolbox was created. I am suddenly overwhelmed with how closely I hold those dear to me. There are so many pieces of paper in that box that hold so many emotions, and the ones that have the most weight are from people who are still a part of my life today. Although my life is constantly rocked by my desire for upheaval, I know a good thing when I see it. Some people and things live inside the part of me that I will never leave behind.

It's nice to know that everybody else hasn't changed that much, either.

"All I want's some barbeque and a little revolution."

never let go. g