April 13, 2021:

It seems odd that I have no photos of the friends who were most important in my life.

I have Instamatic snaps of the little rapist, the kid who grew up to be so rough with the neighborhood girls and who on his way there shot me in the foot with my own BB gun, provoking one of the few fistfights I've ever deliberately initiated. There are pics of the emaciated little shoplifter who later burglarized our apartment. Several of the ludicrous Big Brother of America who saved me from I-dunno-what. A few of my mother's bestie's kid, with whom I was never close.

There are none of my adolescent bestie, Craig. Or of his younger half-brother and half-sister, or their wonderful mom Muriel who was always so kind to me. Or of the neighborhood girl I loved, Lorrie. Or of the beautiful neighborhood girls I lusted after and with whom at one time or another engaged in various forms of primitive pubescent exploration. Nor of important places: the bowling alley, the pool, the slot car track, the dozens of adventurous locations around San Diego which Craig and I explored by bicycle.

It's as if I did not know who what or where was important, except, I certainly did.

It's possible my later mania for documenting derives from these gaps in the record. Made simple and costless now by the brilliance of iPhone.