Ode to Poedah
We all have items from our earliest youth that carry fond memories til this very day. When I was very young, still in a crib, I had a little red stuffed dog. It's tongue was a piece of red felt stapled underneath its snout. I don't remember playing with the dog, but somehow I remember the feeling of that soft tongue between my fingers. Years later, when I was old enough to be cognizant of my earlier years, I uncovered said dog in a box of old stuff. It was covered in dirt, but the little red felt tongue was still there. I toyed with it between my fingers, and some feeling came flooding back to me, but I wasn't quite sure how to describe it.
When I was 10, I lamented at the cancellation of my favorite cartoon series, "The Transformers." Hell, I even wrote a letter to Hasbro, asking them at the very least to bring the toys back to retail. They wrote back to me, and I still have that letter. I met a boy in junior high named Jacob, who was willing to sell him his entire collection of Transformers for 20 bucks. Although I was aware of the appreciation potential of the toys, I bought them mainly because they gave me that same feeling that the little red dog did. It was the feeling of home, the warmth of safety and unfiltered happiness that came with being a child.
When I was 13 I shop-lifted a "Street and Smith's Pro Football Guide" from Vons. It was 1991, and it was the first thing that I ever stole. I read that thing from front to back, including all the statistics. I've bought many a pro football guide since then, but I still have my original 1991 copy. And when I see "Street and Smith's" on the newsstand, that same feeling of familiarity and happiness engulfs me. That is home, as well.
Nostalgia has permeated my evening, made me long for that feeling of home. Two days ago, I received a package from one of my dearest friends. Included in the package were pictures that we had taken a couple of years ago, on a visit to San Francisco. I hadn't thought about those few days in a while, because I find that I often get caught up in the past, ruminating on moments of purity and joy that seem to come less frequently nowadays. It makes it hard for me to live the life that I have now. I understand that the past, particularly the happy parts of it, are indelibly tinged with blurry subjectivity. Still, looking at those pictures, I could not help but drown myself in the comfortable waves of memory. My physical home is ephemeral; my real home, which consists of the people I love and the memories akin to my little red dog, are everlasting. Even when I can't take all of them with me, one of my "safeties" sends them to me via airmail. It's only a miracle if you never thought it could happen to you. I can still long and ache like a Greek tragedy...with Chinese subtitles.
It's 5 am in the morning here. I just got back from another one of those nights, doused in alcohol, cigarette smoke, and bad food at too late an hour. In front of the DJ, a greasy whiteboy in shades had his shirt unbuttoned, then his undershirt torn off by a clueless Chinese girl. She then started feeling his chest as those around me howled with either excitement or revulsion. He was in love with himself.
It was at that moment, the very second the wannabe Adonis revealed his ego to me, that I realized how I longed for home. For the people who love me, at least enough to send me a bit of home via airmail.
When I was 10, I lamented at the cancellation of my favorite cartoon series, "The Transformers." Hell, I even wrote a letter to Hasbro, asking them at the very least to bring the toys back to retail. They wrote back to me, and I still have that letter. I met a boy in junior high named Jacob, who was willing to sell him his entire collection of Transformers for 20 bucks. Although I was aware of the appreciation potential of the toys, I bought them mainly because they gave me that same feeling that the little red dog did. It was the feeling of home, the warmth of safety and unfiltered happiness that came with being a child.
When I was 13 I shop-lifted a "Street and Smith's Pro Football Guide" from Vons. It was 1991, and it was the first thing that I ever stole. I read that thing from front to back, including all the statistics. I've bought many a pro football guide since then, but I still have my original 1991 copy. And when I see "Street and Smith's" on the newsstand, that same feeling of familiarity and happiness engulfs me. That is home, as well.
Nostalgia has permeated my evening, made me long for that feeling of home. Two days ago, I received a package from one of my dearest friends. Included in the package were pictures that we had taken a couple of years ago, on a visit to San Francisco. I hadn't thought about those few days in a while, because I find that I often get caught up in the past, ruminating on moments of purity and joy that seem to come less frequently nowadays. It makes it hard for me to live the life that I have now. I understand that the past, particularly the happy parts of it, are indelibly tinged with blurry subjectivity. Still, looking at those pictures, I could not help but drown myself in the comfortable waves of memory. My physical home is ephemeral; my real home, which consists of the people I love and the memories akin to my little red dog, are everlasting. Even when I can't take all of them with me, one of my "safeties" sends them to me via airmail. It's only a miracle if you never thought it could happen to you. I can still long and ache like a Greek tragedy...with Chinese subtitles.
It's 5 am in the morning here. I just got back from another one of those nights, doused in alcohol, cigarette smoke, and bad food at too late an hour. In front of the DJ, a greasy whiteboy in shades had his shirt unbuttoned, then his undershirt torn off by a clueless Chinese girl. She then started feeling his chest as those around me howled with either excitement or revulsion. He was in love with himself.
It was at that moment, the very second the wannabe Adonis revealed his ego to me, that I realized how I longed for home. For the people who love me, at least enough to send me a bit of home via airmail.