Trappings Of My Past Self
I wore a green T-shirt with iron-on letters on it. Jonnie on the front. Greene on the back. In case anyone wanted to know. My mom made me several fake basketball jerseys just like this. 4 on the front. Dantley on the back. Purple shirt, green letters. A Utah Jazz jersey for much less, and more comfortable. I walked to a drum that once fell out of a third-story window.
There’s a photo, somewhere in my closet, of me hugging the porcelain god with what looks like the remnants of eggs in the toilet. My hand is cupping the bowl. I have on this blazer that I thought looked really cool when I went out. Somehow, this is an amazing memory.
My mom once took me to a psychiatrist when I was little. He had me draw photos and then interpreted them. He would draw a line, and I was supposed to finish the drawing. I drew animals or houses. I didn’t draw anything weird.
The first time I shaved my head, it felt like a true release. I started to really love it. I still think about doing it again, even now. I used to rub my hands through my hair all the time. It felt great. But I think my face is too fat for this look now. I don’t know if that matters to me. To be able to wake up in the morning and just go out without messing with my hair was a fever dream.
I used to watch my son’s chest move up and down in the crib when he was a baby. It was hard to sleep. It was hard to go to work knowing he was around. It still is. I watched my daughter sleep less, but only because I had been through the gauntlet once. When she is three hours away, it seems like 10,000 and two steps at once.
My mom and stepdad worked at The Stephen Talkhouse in Amagansett during the summers when I was growing up. I hung out some nights until 2 or 3 in the morning, guzzling Shirley Temples, eating key lime pie, and watching TV up in the chef’s room. The chef would sometimes try to jiggle my balls as a joke. I didn’t think it was funny.
I broke up with a girl once because she was a bad speller. I would imagine her leaving me a note in the morning, if we lived together, saying, “See you tonigte, hony.” I couldn’t do it. I feel bad because our first date was out of a rom-com. I still look her up from time to time. I’ve never found her online.
I used to buy wrestling magazines on the way home from school in Brooklyn at the Henry Street train station. The guy in the little magazine store knew me. They were up high, next to the porn magazines, because they sometimes had bloody photos on the cover. I hoped one day he would slip a Penthouse in for me. He never did.
I didn’t go to so many of my dad’s relatives’ funerals. I think I just couldn’t handle more death. They were all so nice to me growing up, and I didn’t show up for them. I wonder if they are still judging me. I wish I had done better.
My basement is full of my kids’ old stuff to go through. After my grandmother died, I went through the house and put a Post-it note on things I wanted to keep. I ended up not keeping any of them. I wish I had just one thing from her house in my house that wasn’t a photo. An old TV. The timer for her lamps in the living room. A worn inside-outside bench from under the tree near the tiny pond.
I met one of my best friends while in line to meet Jim Kwik at a Mindvalley conference almost ten years ago. I haven’t seen her since, but we've been on Google Meet every two weeks for years. I’ve watched her become a mom over the Internet. We tell each other we love each other all the time. It’s special.
There’s nothing worse than having terrible gas while doing a closing statement in a felony trial. You have nowhere to go. There is nowhere to hide. It throws off your entire rhythm, but it’s also kind of funny. I guess I wasn’t as rigid as I thought back then because I can remember almost making fun of myself for being in that situation. I hoped they would think it was the bailiff.
I have a photographic memory. I can’t avoid the trappings of my past self.
© Jonathan Greene, August 15, 2026
