Tokey the Bear and his memories

You know how certain songs take you to oddest of places? Not even to the moment you first heard them, or a moment with weighty significance. They often lead to infestations of memories that aren’t entirely rational but consuming nonetheless. My mind drifts entirely too much. I would have likely been a fearsome academic thing if the memorization of my school books had occurred with the fervor and discipline I afforded to song lyrics. I mean, more so than I already am. I am often impressed with my unabashed sense of humility as well.

Silverchair ‘s “Ana’s Song” distinctly reeks of 7th grade Science, shooting the shit with Clint in the back row, wishing that the school hadn’t effed up my schedule and placed me in the regular class instead of advanced placement. Drawing chairs on the back of notebooks, yearning to dissect frogs in formaldehyde instead of Mrs. Mogensen’s bad perm job.

Switchfoot’s $4.99 box set from Target equates to driving my Dad’s Camry from Waller to our then-new house in Cypress, wishing that he would let me put the car in the school’s parking lot and that I had more religion. Even the pseudo-religion reminiscent of that then snaggletoothed Lakewood Church guy would have sufficed.

Incubus’ “Miss You” brings about the minute infatuation I had on that wannabe skater kid that everyone called ‘Tokey’ instead of Toby because of obvious reasons. Spazzing, telling him that I thought he was cute in a moment of immense word vomit and immediately taking it back because a girl should NEVER crush on a younger guy in high school. Especially one they called TOKEY.

Anything by Richard Marx, six year old me taking nap between my sisters’ twin beds, my arm draped across the only teddy bear that didn’t give me nightmares (because the others had shifty eyes), the one Grandma Florence knitted with the brilliant red cap and snowy fur that I suppose now has long gone brown. Wonder whether it survived the move from Waller to Cypress. Likely boxed in the garage next to old lead paint and the hose.

Janet Jackson’s “Velvet Rope” album…Reveling in her sultry disappointments, teeming with pubescent anger all of the time for no damn reason and thinking that hating my mom was the cool thing to do.

This was mostly nonsensical. For that, I do not apologize.