I don’t own a lot of things. I’ve moved a lot over the years, and I tend to downsize with each move. So it always amazes me when I happen across something I’d completely forgotten existed.
In this case it was the discovery of a 13 year-old composition notebook. I flipped through it, and found myself exploring a time capsule from a Kevin I barely remember. It’s full of short story and comic plot threads, half-formed ideas, hazy dreams of occult terrorism and flying saucers, horrible doodles, and notes on articles I was writing for the Weekly Dig.
I lamented about an ex-girlfriend (I wrote a terrible song about her once. It’s criminally embarrassing). I scrawled thumbnails for a comic script. The notebook is full of context-free notes about my life at the time. I had a website on Tripod and made periodic spoken word performances in Boston. I spelled magic with a “ck”. I was a smart-ass little bastard who thought he knew something about the world.
It’s humbling to look at the dreck I was producing in the year 2000. But also reassuring. I couldn’t have predicted half of the wild and amazing turns my life would take in the intervening years. For all the crazy ideas and dreams I scribbled in that notebook, I didn’t see a world with Facebook or Twitter, a world where I’d be a seasoned traveler who fell madly in love with New York. A world where I’d be preparing to move to my third borough.
13 years ago, Bush was a candidate, 9-11 was a phone number, and the man who would be our first black president wasn’t a blip on anyone’s radar. Cell phones weren’t omnipresent, and they definitely weren’t smart. I had no idea the friends I would make or lose. Didn’t have clue one about the injuries I’d inflict on my heart in pursuit of some tiny understanding of the amazingness of love. No idea the tears I would cry when I lost my grandfather, or those I wouldn’t cry at my father’s passing. 13 years ago, nobody paused in awkward contemplation when you said the words “Boston Marathon”.
There’s something very comforting in that notebook. So much can happen in 13 years. Good and ill. For me. For the world. The future is unwritten.
Where will we be in 2026? Where will I be? I’m excited to figure that out.