Where The Secret Things Live -- Part II

So now it is time to talk about that second item that I found yet avoided discussing previously. There is no great story behind this one though, as I have made sure of that.



35 mm 100
Color Print

RETURN TO FAYS
FOR QUALITY PROCESSING


It is, of course, a roll of undeveloped film that has been in my possession for close to 15 years. Fay’s Pharmacy was a regional store chain that my family would often use. I remember they used god-awful yellow plastic bags with bold black lettering. Fortunately, that store chain hasn’t been in existence for quite some time, so I don’t have to worry about those putrid bags anymore.

This lonesome roll of film has sat quietly at the bottom of my box without ever getting the chance to speak. How unjust. How unfair. It did its job-- it imprinted the present so that in the future, I could look back at the past. But I did not want to look back at the past.

But I didn’t want to destroy the past either. No, I never had the courage to get it developed, but I also never had the courage to get rid of it. That pharmacy no longer exists and that technology has become obsolete, yet still, it can speak if I choose to let it.

I have some idea of what is on there but no specific images come to mind. I am sure that it contains pictures from a New Years Eve party in either ’94 or ’95. It was at Leslie’s house, I remember that much, but little else. I don’t really think about that sort of thing very much. I don’t really handle the past very well.

I have a very difficult time looking at pictures (yearbooks are the worst). I don’t even really know why I struggle so much with it. I have given this a lot of thought and I can’t come up with a definitive reason as to why. All I know is that it makes me supremely uncomfortable. It would be understandable for someone who hated his or her past but that just isn’t the case. Actually, it is quite the opposite.

I tend to think that everything in the past was better. Looking at pictures reminds me of all the fun I had and it depresses me to think that I may never feel that way again, even though it simply isn’t accurate. Sure, I won’t be able to relive those times, but I sure as will (and have), create other ones. But my brain doesn’t see things that way. It only knows what was, not what is and not what will be.

It seems so paradoxical now that I think about it, but I tend to bury the good things in my life, and flaunt the bad things. As if I am unworthy of good things. In many ways, shame motivates me more than pride, so I make sure that I never let myself off the hook too easily. But as I said, everything is better in the past.

I am sure a psychologist would say that I remove the “good things” from my view because I have a fear of never being able to duplicate them. Freud would just say that I have a fear of not living up to my father’s expectations. That, and that I really just want to sleep with my mother.

Whatever the case may be, I think it is time I let this roll of film out of purgatory. I don’t know what to expect in these pictures or how I will react, but now just seems like the right time. I don’t know why, but this last time that I was rifling around my old lock box, a fake ID and a roll of film caught my attention.

Go figure.