Prolifico

1996 | February 21, 2007

Outdoor education in sixth grade. One of the classes was outdoor cooking. I cannot even remember what we ate, but it was one of the best meals that I have ever consumed. Two reasons: my then-best friend and I had a lot of fun making it, and we were already ravenous from not eating very much earlier in the day. Also, we destroyed a roll of aluminum foil thanks to our eleven-year-old ineptitude. All I remember about the teacher was that he was angry we harmed the roll, and he had glasses like me. If I strain, remembering more works: he also had terrible handwriting, and he taught workshop/woodshop.

I tremble a little when the good parts of childhood come back. I was so in love with the idea of seeing friends, I would just pack up my inhaler and some pajamas at the end of every week in expectation of fun. Even though I’d be sick all night due to the dog and its infernal hair, and even sicker due to the orgy of junk food, it didn’t matter. I think that’s the closest to nonfamilial love I’ve been, beating any that shameful whipped-love for a girlfriend, or bottomlessly-interested love for a hobby or object. Relationships with friends probably always fell just short of love, and on the opposite end it was not hate or filled with hate either (for me), because otherwise it would be infinitely strange that has always failed to generate strong emotions (again, for me).

It is not nostalgia, or regret whatsoever. It is a wish to just for a few seconds remember more of it — some kind of vicarious stammer mixed with an elder compassion. I suppose I have to write them down when they come back to me.

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