collecting of stuff
Through the years, I have collected boxes of stuff because I am a collector of the past and an anticipator of what is to come. Endless scraps of paper are everywhere- phone numbers never dialed, addresses never mailed to, clippings of things I once cared about, all with the idea attached to them of what could be.
The never-ending sea of ticket stubs fall out of every hiding place. The concerts upon concerts attended with my family, with my friends, with someone I didn’t know yet but who came anyway. Stubs from spur-of -the-moment movie choices, festivals, exhibits, museums, football bleacher seats, conferences, Ferris wheel rides and ice-skating excursions, flights for vacations, for weddings, for funerals.
My toppling-over stacks of letters, from loved ones lost and found are still with me. Well-loved love letters, folded and refolded, so that they have started to tear, letters that I carried with me throughout certain times in my life, reminding me of where I thought I was headed. I have saved other letters too, including those that I never wanted or needed to read again because I wish I wouldn’t have read them in the first place and the notes on floral paper from my grandmothers, telling me to make sure that I don’t work too hard. The cards from people I love and people that I like I have saved because of what they have taught me about love and about myself-that love isn’t selfish, but people can be.
I saved some of those notes that were invisibly passed during English class, hinting at my previous obsessions and all the boys that have come and gone and the tales of the few that stuck around a bit longer. I saved the writings from my best friends, some gone now too. It is all with me-the dances, the dates, and the anxiety over whether he knew how much I cared for him and the reality of whether it mattered anyway.
Journals upon journals, purchased way before I had anything to write, full of panic and hope and color and dreams. All the magazine clippings, drawings and fortunes from eaten cookies at cheap dinners and the photos of me and those I love, are glued into my journals, the chaotic chronology of my life.
These artifacts are not thought about often and stay in the reference section of my closet, but somehow these things tell the story of my life, and where I have been, my passions, my woe, and my bliss. We never think that we will forget the moments that once shaped us, but we do. This has somehow been my desperate attempt to make sense of it all. And I save this stuff because it makes sense to have it, to look back at who I once was. Although the past is behind us for a reason, I save this stuff because this way, the past is there when I need it.
posted by Mary @ 10:47 PM
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