Every day in the Eighties, for me, was a lifetime. It was a time when I could still look to touch and smell and hear all of the beautiful world that was still there for anyone still able to see and feel and sniff and actually listen.

Before the great change in the world.

Things today can never be the same as they were back in the Eighties. Today it's as if I've been blinded with cataracts, set afire with pain, unable to smell, and deafened by hearing loss.

Today I turned 90. Oh, to be in my Eighties again.

In a small town, neon lights flickered, casting colorful reflections on the asphalt. A cassette player blasted pop hits as kids roller-skated down the block, their laughter mixing with music. Jane, clad in leg warmers and oversized scrunchies, rushed to meet her friends at the mall. They passed the arcade, where pixelated heroes battled on screens. They munched on greasy fries, sipping neon-colored soda, and plotted their weekend adventures. As the sun dipped below the horizon, the smell of fresh popcorn wafted from the theater, promising movie magic. It was just another day, but the eighties felt electric and alive.

Mom never talked about Dad. He'd left when I was no more than six years old. She and him, they'd been the uber cool kids in high school. Many people had many theories. A prevailing sentiment, was that he'd run off in disappointment when his son was decidedly the opposite. Just the kind of kid he'd beat the snot out of. Mom and Drake assured me that wasn't true. Well after finding a wind-up time machine, we'd see who was right. Because I'm about sure it was Dad staring down on us when the garden shed door opened. In 1985.

The eighties? I was in my (roaring) twenties and on the cusp of life. What a splendid and precipitous time, marked by days on the beach, graduating college, a first job, big hair, shoulder pads, stirrup pants, watching MTV......

Music has been a consistent theme through my years, and the 80’s offered some of the best: Prince, Michael Jackson, Bowie, Springsteen, Madonna, Depeche Mode and so many I don’t have the words (literally) to mention.

Oh, but to return with what wisdom and experience I’ve since gleaned would be truly, undeniably, overwhelmingly……fucking horrific.....with the exception of the music, of course......

I remember sitting cross-legged in my bright yellow room on my narrow, four-poster bed, sans canopy. I remember the late afternoon sun finding a way to send a shimmering ray through my small window despite the close proximity of our neighbor's home. I remember the new black marble notebook in my hands and the happy feeling of opening to a clean page, writing my first words.

My lifelong passion for writing began in 1980. I had enjoyed creative writing in school prior to 1980, but it was that year that I began writing for myself.

It was a good day.

When Richard died, he was a retired widower who'd grown his basement collection for decades. There were balls, tires, license plates, fasteners, and more. Innocuous junk, only the pile of hospital badges raised some suspicion.

But this was nothing diabolical. Richard was a collector, a Depression forged drive. He was also a God fearing man; if you jumped off the Twin Towers, well, "No faith!"

They cleared Richard's house after he died. So the new owner, a single mother, was surprised to find a bag behind the furnace. Indeed, even more surprised to discover, inside it, Richard's stash of dildos.

A day in the eighties? In the eighties I was a kid. I had a good childhood but I was bullied and have felt like trash ever since. Eighty years old is alien to me. I’ll be lucky to make it through my forties. I don’t even think I want to be eighty. I hate being old. I never thought I’d live to see forty, let alone eighty. Eighty degrees is too hot. Eighty lonely days. More like years. See above. Eighty broken hearts. Eighty knives stabbing me in the back. Eighty bullets in my head. Yeah. I got nothin.

I loved rain in the early eighties. In heavy rain, everything stopped on a council estate. Nobody went out, not even in cars. No-one, but me. My skinny bruised knees waded through thick downpours. The drumbeat of raindrops pounded their rhythm on my nit-itchy scalp, drowning out any other noises.

Such peaceful isolation. I wondered free. No kids at the park, and not even the travellers came out of their caravans to yell or set their dogs on me. Nobody followed me out into the rain. Nobody could hurt me out there. I sure loved rain in the early eighties.

The bubble of soft understanding goes on beyond that day in the 80s when the earth shook us off her mighty mantle like a mangy cur flinging itchy fleas out of her fur, snapping at our preciousness, stomping us into her hard ground, bridges flattening, coffee houses collapsing, bricks dropping away from on high. Oh, I remember the rumbling of the window frames, not from trucks passing by in the streets but magma flowing down deep, through cracks set by city planners of yore and misunderstandings of place and control gone to our human heads like something predestined yet forgotten.

Mum gave me two whole dollars to spend at the milk bar and as I skipped towards it's hallowed halls I felt rich. She'd said to bring back change of course - but the possibilities of sweet and salty treats were almost endless. Mum had been watching the TV and crying. It wasn't one of her soaps though. She was watching the news. Something about a murder. I'd asked too many questions, so she'd reached in her bag and sent me to the milk bar. I'm happy I'm alive and not shot to pieces like that musician. John somebody Beatles.