A friend in High School had a set of felt pens: you could only see the ink using a blacklight.
Over a few years he covered every inch of his bedroom with writing, doodles, and other stuff: the walls, ceiling, floor, furniture, stereo speakers, and even the inside of drawers. Nothing remained untouched.
It was pretty cool at the time.
I don’t think his parents ever knew about it.
I saw him a few years ago and asked him about his old bedroom.
“It’s all still there, but I don’t know what most of it means anymore.“
That’s how I feel about my hometown.
note: sure you can never go home, but people seem to write about the experience a lot of the time anyway.
double note: I like when people sum things up for me unintentionally.
triple note: it took me a long time to realize that something good came out of my hometown: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cowichan_knitting
… other than me of course. hee hee!
quadruple note: I haven’t forgotten anything about growing up, … I’ve just misplaced a lot of things for long periods of time.
Today an 8 year old student puked in my classroom. I don’t usually have that affect on people … or a stained smelly carpet.
(I always ask people what they ate as I clean up their vomit: it’s an anti-gag reflex reflex for some reason)