I went to the library to other day. (This is, of course, not an uncommon occurrence.) I was checked out by a slight young lady all in black with checkered canvas shoes, with dyed dark hair (her roots were blond), murky hazel eyes, thick-framed black glasses, pale skin, black safety pins for earrings. She had fabulous jewelry -- a thick silver chain supporting a silver mushroom not far from her neck and clunky silver rings on her fingers. She was nice, and cool, and we had a fine conversation about books and movies. As she started going through the process of running my books through the system the underside of her forearms were revealed -- pale criss-crosses cut into her flesh. And I felt so bad. I've had friends who have cut themselves, into adulthood, cutting themselves while their babies sleep, some eventually resorting to red marker just to get the urge out without hurting themselves. And their lives are so hard, and so painful, and so sad. And I could only think, "Oh, honey..."

And I felt thrown back into the mid-1990's.

I lived in this town before, back in the mid to late 1990's. It was a really hard, sad, time. Terribly depressing, though it had some good bits. (Some fine music. I got through my B.A., and did well, somehow.)

On the say to my car I could only think about this young girl, who for some reason slashes X's into her skin, up and down her arms, over and over again, and the music of 1997, and I could only feel that sadness and desperation of being stuck in this town and being so alone and feeling so aimless. So I finally got to my car, and climbed in, and turned it over. The radio was on, and the station was playing Marcy Playground, which is one of the songs that defines this period for me.

I was instantly transported, and suddenly I was 21, childless, trying to make it through school and life, living in this town I was supposed to love, but hated. Wanting to get something out, something written, but I either couldn't justify it because I had so many more important things to work on, or couldn't get anything real to take shape and become something. Wanting to love what I was doing, but was finding it disconnected from myself, feeling passionless, and mostly tired.

This feeling lasted until the song on the radio changed and I got lost, suddenly finding myself in the ... affordable part of town, where blankets and wafting sheets of plastic stood in for windows, and the cars were like rusted versions of something out of a Quentin Tarantino film, which were another big part of the 1990's.

But I still can feel the shadow of the me at this time, frustrated with myself and my life, where there was no feeling or control, watching my life slide out of view (yeah, there's a song reference here), and I was completely impotent, and wasted so much time.

And I'm left with the image of the librarian, a really cool thoughtful young woman who, if my friends are any indication, has to be hurting.