Abby was the first one to diagnose me, a mid-’90s teenage hippie who left the scent of patchouli oil in her wake, leaving her oddly present even when she had long since passed. Her long, perfectly straight blonde hair reached far down her back, and her floor-length flowing skirts and graceful, even-paced movements made her appear as if she was floating across the floor; my version of Neil Young’s Unknown Legend, albeit platonically so.
Abby was attractive, but went, as far as I could tell, rather unnoticed by the standard Gap-outfitted teen. Her beauty, I suppose, was too obscured by the alternative dress and curiously quiet demeanor. She was too enigmatic for mainstream attention, but that’s what made her so darn interesting.
By quiet, I don’t mean shy. At least she did not seem shy to me. If anything, I found her confident, sure of who she was among gaggles of teens who were too afraid to be themselves. Most of all, Abby was mysterious. Not one to casually share much about herself, she seemed rather content to quietly observe that which was happening around her.
Abby was a deep empath who appeared to be extracting meaning from everything around her, who saw beauty in ordinary things that most people overlooked. With her hair tucked behind her ears, she wore a slight grin, as if she held a great secret. It’s hard to say what she was thinking about, but looking back, I imagine it to be an intuitive awareness that teenage life was intrinsically cliché; just empty enough to not take too seriously.
As I walked into Senior Honors World Literature, wearing standard-issue baggy boot-cut jeans and a Phish t-shirt (or some variation thereof), Abby’s narrow and oft-glossy amber eyes would follow me to my desk, directly in front of hers. Was she high, I often wondered? Her glare was piercing, as if she could see everything about me without my saying a word. As it turns out, I think she could.
PAPA’S PICKS!
A Strategically Questionable Side-Hustle
Listen, Papa sold cars, so he certainly understood a good hustle. In that spirit, here are a few items relevant to this post that I like. If you click a link and make a purchase, I get, well, pennies basically. Like I said, strategically questionable.
neil young: unplugged
Did you know that Neil Young used to haul his gear around from gig to gig in a 1948 Buick Roadmaster hearse that he named Mortimer Hearseburg, or simply Mort for those on a first-name basis? Nor did I.
“Unknown Legend” was first released on his 1992 album, Harvest Moon, but I prefer the live version from the 1993 MTV Unplugged performance.
SEE ON AMAZON
truly patchouli
I’m on the fence when it comes to Patchouli. Sometimes I really like the smell, and sometimes I find it kind of gross.
It comes down to the body-odor-to-patchouli ratio. If you want to wear some patchouli as a perfume, supplementing your otherwise strong underlying personal hygiene regimen, I’m cool with that. It’s when people get into the territory of patchouli as a stand-in for deodorant that things get dicey. I’m not saying it can’t be done, but you need to be one of those generally-not-that-stinky types to pull it off.
You know what would be a great product? A body odor detection device, similar to a breathalyzer, that could give you a scientific measurement of your stinkiness. “I’m sorry, sir, but your BO is three times the legal limit. I’m going to have to ask you to step into the shower.”
SEE ON AMAZON
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Amazing writing! Have followed and it’s great to meet you 😊
Thanks so much! I hope you enjoy my other pieces as well at some point.
Will have a look 😉💚