writing writing

The other day I was looking through my memory box. Came across these old photographs of my family and me from when I was a kid in the summertime. They're from past summers we all stayed in Aunt Sonia's New England vacation home. I never met Aunt Sonia. Aunt Wendy and Joel were old wave artists and makers in the Boston contemporary scene. One of their high class connections was Aunt Sonia. Sonia had two pieces of real estate in Rockport, one of Massachusetts' coastal towns, the kind of place where you only packed your beige Talbots slacks. You own a poodle mix. You live for the Volvo wagon suburban aesthetic. Anyways, Sonia's first place was a historic witch hiding house, you know Arthur Miller Crucible shit. Six year old me was not about this joint. Gave me the creeps. The second place was this spot on the rocks. It was a guilty yuppies' avant-gardener architectural hide away. Aunt Sonia would let the Hoo family reside there for a few weeks in the summer, and in return, Uncle Joel would clean and fix up the place.

So these photographs aren't like your normal photographs. Have you ever taken a panorama on your phone? If you have, you probably would have made me uncomfortable twirling with your phone as you captured the moment, like you were entranced with your lover, Mr. Phoney. These photos are hoagie sized and linear, as if a director wheeled the camera across the backyard, or out on the rocks and the seafront. It's sunny in all of the photos, the light is warm and bright. The ocean has a glazed pottery blue, the wood of the house is grey and gritty, makes your hands feel splintery. I smell the old sponge smell of the carpet, the dusty people smell of the coaches, and the sweetness of the sun baked books. I remember the time I got up in the night, climbed out of bed, took the ladder to the third floor, slid the screen door, and walked out onto the balcony to a view of waves, a full moon, and solitude. I know, I was a deep little six year old.

My brother Cameron and I were much younger than my high school cousins. Lily and Jasmine would watch over us, and Toshi would hangout with his girlfriend. They showed us West Side Story, and in return we'd surprise wake them up in the morning. My mom wasn't in the picture then, so Aunt Wendy, Lily and Jasmine were like maternal and older sisterly figures to us. My dad got to put his feet up, sleep, and listen to Jazz CDs in the living room. We were there for a few weeks, but once Cameron and I were nine, we stopped going to Sonia's.

Aunt Sonia has since passed away. Her kids have families who repair the place and keep it company in the summers. My mom's in the picture. My brother and I are in college. My dad lives with his girlfriend and their cats. Aunt Wendy and Joel divorced. He resides in his bachelor art loft in Clearwater, FL. My cousins and Aunt Wendy trickled out to the West Coast. Aunt Wendy was a hippy who went to California in the 70's when everyone wanted to be Joni Mitchell, or Kerouac. Now they're all involved in the arts and are gentrifying Oakland.

The Rockport that was doesn't exist anymore. And it does too. It exists in a memory. It exists in a box where I keep all my paper memories. The photographs are hoagie sized mirrors, reflecting a moment. Without us though, all of its context is lost. It isn't a mirror of anything but a house and coast line. It isn't the sweet smell of sun baked paperback books. It isn't the poking of little nails as you walk up the old carpeted stairs. It isn't salt sprayed wood or Cameron getting poison ivy. It's an oddly long photograph. The color is overly vibrant. If you're with people long enough, any place could be filled with moments and sensations, but it's also never there. It's a memory.

The only place that I am of is now. My memory box is both a time capsule and a coffin of who and where I was from. As much as I remember about the past the only thing that exists is now and will ever exist is now. Outside of the photos in the box is my day to day world. I have campus memorized, but Lehigh isn't a place I'm in. A lecture room is more of a tool than a place for me, where I get the job done of being a student. There are few memories of moments. Now I'm from my freshman hall. I'm the doodles in my notes, the Laury Street anarchist cooperative house, Sokols, the members only, smoker friendly bowling alley on Hillside. These are the places I am. Hey there reader, place I am of now are these words where I am ever living and dying. All of these places are dead and alive. If you're almost done reading this, remember to look up for a minute. You're a big sack of meat and memories, dying and living too. The only thing you really have is now.