My recollection of my high-school years has become unaccountably uncontrollable.
Having published an authentic account of my boyhood years, I was reminded by a kindly aunt that the word bicycle has two meanings, and she did not remember one single one of those with two wheels which her husband had helped me with.
I did find, on later reflection, and while this gem of history was still available online, that high-school girls seemed allergic to the word bicycle. Outside of school I met one girl who was an avid cyclist. She also was very careful to always wear protection.
I couldn't stand bicycle helmets as it provided an unnatural feeling, and a questionable barrier to personal suffering and misery. My dad had taken the liberty to point out that this too had a double meaning, long before I had registered to vote.
Visiting Hillcrest on one occasion, when all was water under the bridge, this one (almost) woman who saw nothing unfeminine about bicycles happened to pass a remark, which I passed on to a friend.
If I'm constantly reminded of a place which I left for good, and without any doubt at all; and further, am required to return there on account of that which we need atop of sunlight and water, it might in fact be possible that we come to think of the one person who could have kept us from making the decision to leave at all. That is, if they themselves hadn't also decided to leave (we're not talking about bicycle-girl here).
But having, after secluding myself and meditating for a few weeks, recalled that a person was too cowardly to answer me in person, I find myself yet again contemplating the Greater Hillcrest Area. And the place I found myself in, try as I might, is a second-hand shop of the first order.
For the benefit of people who think that a second-hand shop is a place you take your Hi-Fi when you see one with fancier buttons ...
'We don't buy Hi-Fis with wooden boxes.'
"But it's a valve amp!"
'Look, buddy, don't you see that it has got a dial where a digital display should be?'
"But it has been tuned in an anechoic chamber!"
'It sounds like you're living in an echo chamber. I said I won't buy it!'
"Okay, what about this Thorens turntable?"
"What is your problem, buddy?"
'Oh, I get it! You don't have a wife to guide you to the right style of button. I suppose you haven't heard of the renewable material that they're using in place of plastic for the boxes these days?'
"Okay, what about this crucifix?"
'Jesus! Are you going to risk losing your place in heaven?'
... this kind of thing wouldn't happen at a second hand shop of the first order. At one of those venerable old shops we would find that Jesus He Knows Me, and simply looking at us at that, as if Genesis was looking for us, while idleness was working its magic in one who didn't lie idle. Perhaps this can be a gift in return for a favour by one who has very similar music tastes to me.
Unless you had actually taken a dump, scraped it off the tarmac, and placed it into the nearest checkers-packet that the city so kindly places for us here and there, our second hand shop would have offered you something for whatever you took their way. Until the fateful day in nineteen-ninety-five when the general populace decided that second hand goods were all tainted with HIV.
For the benefit of those raised by others who are now looking blankly to the horizon, a second hand shop was there to provide a service.
For the benefit of those who have only ever received sensible gifts such as monetary amounts for their latest game, or music subscription, some of us did receive presents for our birthdays which were the rather odd. At the time I received it, I had not considered the possibility of it being the lowest of all beggarly insults that was ever offered to a boy--as I did not know about double meanings--which is fortunate because there would have been no legal retaliation. Had I been less sentimentally perverse and not interested in the meaning of the gifts I was given, I would simply have taken it to a shop which was doing the service that we now expect charity organizations to do.
But in time I came to realize that a model Space Shuttle that was given the very year of the Challenger explosion would serve me as a life-long reminder of who prayed to the heavens for technological progress, and who simply looked into the sky.
Being so sentimentally perverse, never will I be able to forget how America failed us totally; never would I forget the moment that they showed the world that from here on it was all going to be lies about technological progress. Never would I be allowed to forget that those who argue about the veracity of the moon landing are arguing about irrelevancies.
That same year, Halleys Comet passed by; not having been taught to believe in Father Christmas or Santa Claus, I simply looked at it with my dad as something curious in the sky: he had no need to tell me it was a sleigh, or a snowball that a big giant threw into the sky. What would be the point of make believe to a boy who knew how to read a book of fiction?
I have come to two realizations today: that material girls are those which detest abstract thought, and that seven years of my life had to be ignored while I was employed on account of the first paragraph of this section.
Finding there to be no channel by which I may communicate with the person referred to, I can do nothing else but lock the door and throw away the key.
As mentioned in a previous revision of this webdoc, my initial efforts had started at the wrong end of town. I had been haunting the place as this was a requirement of my job: there is no other explanation.
My gravitation to my highschool is on account of there being matters of state that parents of boys and girls are only privy to. I do not intend to stick my nose in, more than I find is necessary as a citizen of a land of confusion.