As I get older, making the time to make more times where nothing matters, matters more.
I think I was 9-years-old. Lying on the roof of my friend Timothy’s shed, my hands cradling my head. A 9-year-old Timothy lay next to me. Mirroring.
It’s a summer evening. The sky is blue-grey. Hundreds of bright stars begin to pop. One. By. One. And it’s silent.
The thing I remember about Timothy is he ate white bread tomato sauce sandwiches. And the thing I remember about Timothy’s shed is that our young legs strained a little if ever we stepped onto it’s elevated, slippery floor. The floor of Timothy’s shed was higher than the average shed floor because there was a thick layer of hundreds and hundreds of mucky magazines strewn wall-to-wall. A foot-or-so deep. Their shiny covers slithering against each other under our feet. Timothy had two older brothers.
I wonder why I remember that on-shed evening so vividly? I think it’s because it was so peaceful. Outside my head. And inside.
Pornographic magazines to a 9-year-old me were nothing more than a stackable, skateable adventure. I didn’t know Timothy’s last name. Just the tomato sauce sandwich thing. And I never knew what time it was on nights like that. I do miss it.
As I get older, making the time to make more times where nothing matters, matters more.