Dookie (40 Years of Solitude)

I wrote this today in my Nostalgia journal, and it’s alternately something I’m proud of and something I’m uncomfortable with. I think it’s realist, but it may be too cynical as well. Oh well. Have at it.


“Dookie (40 Years of Solitude)”

Back in 1994, your mother was given a CD called “Dookie” and she sold it to a used records store, because a silly title like that didn’t seem worth a listen. This is the first brush with your own developing musical taste that you can remember. You wore a purple jumper then. You knew how to read chapter books. You struggled with use of scissors. Your baby sister was on the way. 

Fast forward 20 years and you are buying the “Dookie” vinyl reissue. You wear black stripes, a cardigan of obsidian, and ebony Chucks laced with irony. You’ve read David Foster Wallace, Updike, Woolf and Palahniuk, but you’re stuck on picture paneled books about the Endless these days. You still struggle sometimes with scissors. Baby Sister is on her way to meet you for coffee before her next class. 

Shall we peek ahead still 20 turns more? At 46, you’ll remember making the choice to sell your record collection when you moved cross country for love or money, but not both. You’ll wear more comfortable shoes and pants suits too, but mostly whatever is comfortable because boys are men and they don’t pay you much mind anymore. You read student’s essay and magazines on healthy trans fats. At least food packaging these days makes scissor skills obsolete. And Baby Sister will be due soon. She’s invited you to perform Aunt-ly duties and for coffee…perhaps she feels sorry for you, still writing “undiscovered,” still chasing strains of music recorded before she even existed.