I know you're thinking I'm stuck in the past, but if you knew me now, I don't think you would see that. In fact, I'm not the kind of person who even remembers the past. If it weren't for the old boxes of notebooks and journals that I saved (most of which haven't even been opened in 20 years), it would all be lost to the ether. I can keep friends forever, but I don't hang on to memories.
And thank god for short-term memories. When you're young, growing into new skin and falling in love every two weeks, it really helps to not remember every humiliation that naturally follows.
But I remember enough to tell you that 1985 was really great. In '82, '83 and '84, I had been mesmerized by unrequited love like sparklers at a birthday party. 1985 was full-on Fourth of July fireworks. I'll be honest - it was my best year for romantic adventures and real, requited love. Finally, what all those poems were for, right? It was "The Rise and Fall of the Love Empire", as I called it, and I had a lot of muses. [All right, that sounds bad, but come on! Do you really want this story to end without love, and, at long last, some randy romps through the garden of earthly delights? After all I've been through?]
I might say something earnest, now, about how I learned something from each lover along the way. This is true. I had a lot to learn. But the most remarkable thing about '85 for me was that I felt free. Coming of age felt good. I was self-confident and eager. I was graduating, going to college, and the whole world felt like it was opening up to me. I still went through some sad, teachable moments; but in hindsight, I can't complain. There's a lot I did that year that I won't recommend to anyone's children. For example, AIDS was just beginning to come into our consciousness, so throwing caution to the wind didn't seem like such a gamble. But at some point, I have to admit it was just plain fun. Exploits that my parents would have called "irresponsible" turned out to be a blast. 24 years later, I'm here to say that there was no harm done.
The adventures that I regret - the ones that hurt me the most - were all related to slavish devotion to men who would never love me the way I felt I should be loved (although, to be honest, the door swung both ways). There's plenty of that in my future, by the way. By comparison, the shallow trysts and the roads-going-nowhere, the "friends with benefits" and the well-meaning infatuations (followed by well-meaning changes of heart) were really just fine by me. It was all great while it lasted, and it kept my spirits up and out of the gutter of depression that I tended to sink into when I was bored.
And through it all, I kept writing, as prolifically as ever. My book was nearly complete: "Poetry: 100% Pure Beef (or Vice-Versa)". Complete, but never sent out into the world. Typed, bound, and left on my desk, along with a whole host of good intentions. But I'm not going to get you down just yet. For now, enjoy 1985 in all its glory. It was the best of times, I'm sure - even for someone who can't remember.
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