Vagaries of an unknown Methacton High School nineteen seventy-seven alumni
THIS IZ A VIGNETTE LODGED WITHIN THY BOWELS OF THIS BEING.
Some conspiratorial and malevolent force must be fast at work cranking the rusty chronology dial.
Damn frightful how years pinwheel into decades. I hate to accept reality that a half century plus ix orbitz marked the age of this mortal name Matthew Harris.
“Where fore art those innocent and precious days of youth”?
That rhetorical question continues to resonate and reverberate within the (cobweb filled) catacombs of my mind with increasing frequency. I feel aghast how great intervals of lifetime elapsed.
Where in tarred nation (and feel free and more than welcome to insert and substitute favorite expletive here) did those carefree, lackadaisical and leisurely days of youth disappear?
I daresay any satisfactory answer can be offered, but this dazed disbelief might be akin to someone becoming inebriated within a darkened dive.
Upon entering broad daylight, blinking their dulled and glassy eyes, and fighting valiantly (yet futilely) against sobriety all the while, said individual relents and confronts their bleak house of existence.
No great expectations (by dickens) ever seemed part and parcel of this formerly reticent and withdrawn mere wisp and writer of words. He did seem to excel in various and sundry obsessive compulsive behaviors, which most serious for those who still possess capacity to jog (perhaps with aid of a walker their respective puberty), my fuzzy memory dredges what constituted a deadly romance with Anorexia Nervosa.
Although nearly three quarters of two score plus ~ xv years elapsed since (supposed) full recovery from attempt at slow suicide via self starvation. I can also honestly attest that a long shadow of darkness impinged itself upon thy psyche.
In other words, a painful awareness prevails that permanent legacy affected maximum growth of body, mind and spirit.
Perhaps divulgence of such poignantly private and painful crisis (that nearly rent this being asunder during emotionally tumultuous prepubescent phase) may be of little interest and less relevant to fellow classmates, than how he (meaning me of course) occupies himself at this juncture, yes?
Truth be told nobody knows the troubles I went thru back during throes of adolescence, which severe difficulty to cope with (what might be deemed ordinary transformations) prompted me to take such a passive yet destructive endgame upon thyself.
With the advantage of foresight (always twenty/twenty – even without glasses), and in retrospect from (supposedly storied) vantage point of greater (cough…gag…hack) maturity and wisdom, I trace cause and effect.
A parallel series of unfortunate events (perhaps beginning even at birth – or well nigh at articulate, delicate, and gamete conception for that matter), a woebegone circumstance finds me deeply submerged into my own Lake Lachrymose.
Regular lock, stock and barrel reassessment of personal travails occurs with pained reflections of those infamous what if scenarios played out ad nauseam with little or no change in the present dilemma. No matter how much mental energy effort gets exerted nor the small fortune of pennies tossed down the wishing well to affect a more ideal, satisfactory and smug past, the inescapable and utter displeasure with this actual and vast amount of tribulations roars back.
Without going into any more grisly details (and bare the soul in greater depths), I acted on a whim to write an extemporaneous missive with genuine ambition to reconnect with high school peers in general and any gal who might be able, eager, ready and willing to admit if she experienced any attraction toward an extremely shy teenager.
Most if not all graduates from the class of nineteen hundred and seventy seven would probably draw a blank upon reading this bumbling and frenetic plight scrawled from most outstanding wall flower to slither snake like from one to another hallway.
I accept and expect the vast majority of readers to scratch their heads with nary a blues clues what purpose this bulletin served if only to exhibit and parade (just spare me one minor request and imagine Pomp and Circumstance playing thru computer speakers) meaningless gibberish.
No matter than little or no comprehension takes place, a friendship (ideally of female persuasion) spoken sotto voce sought chiefly hankers to take place in an effort to become extricated from figurative phlegmatic (actually roiling subsurface, where still waters run deep) quagmire mainly bogged down slogging within quicksand like muck and mire of most dismal self acceptance decrying gusty gutsy jingling petsmart sobriety.
