Old Photos

Many of you have mentioned to me, over this last week, how you have shared the common experience of sorting and sifting through your old photos. Mostly, you were looking for the most horrible photo to post, with braces or beret's, bad hair, skinny legs and devious grins.

Many of you got side-tracked, as we always do, by that photo you forgot, the memory that it stirred and the story that came to mind. You remember your prom dress and your date's sweaty hands. You remember your first job and the shitty car it paid for.

Some memories are documented on film or video tape. Now they are stored on digital discs, waiting to be lost to a virus, a magnet or an EMP.

Yet some memories exist only in the minds of those who were there. And these shared memories, like inside jokes, are the domain of those who share them.

One friend may recall drying soggy socks by the fire on the Willamette sandbar, eating sandwiches on the sand.

One friend may recall a harrowing haul to Brooks, with an uninvited passenger who wanted to know whether we rode the rails.

Three friends may recall some enchanted evening on a table top at a Carl's Jr. in Hollywood.

Two friends may recall a very drunken meal at a Mexican restaurant on 82nd street.

And as such, the memories of this weekend belong to those who were there. As I delivered my friend to the airport today, and shook his hand good bye, I realized that there were no pictures taken of the two of us to mark the occasion. The weekend will remain, I suppose, an ever-increasingly foggy memory.

The details will blur and legends will grow. Some moments will fade entirely from view. Overall, however, it was a good weekend. A good weekend in deed.