When you relate a dream upon waking up, your memory is often expunged, but the listener remembers. So when I’ve become blissfully ignorant of my night’s work, my husband is sitting there hoping that good coffee will shake the taste of my disturbing dream out of his own head.
It’s certainly no coincidence I’m ready to shed these memories like snake skin because it comes at a time when I’m ridding myself of most of my possessions—things I’ve carted around with me for thousands of miles, these things carefully organized and boxed and labeled. Such organization is my rationale for why I’m not of a hoarding mindset, which, of course, I am.
This blog is a rumination of all things that have been stored in my head with a great amount of organization and attention and it’s time to let them go.
Like most of the hoarding mentality, I’ve imbued my often worthless things with a great amount of value, mostly sentimental. Consequently, my hapless nieces and nephews have had huge boxes of my childhood paraphernalia delivered to them, carefully sorted to account for their individual tastes (See previous post: To Live in a Ship). So the follow-up photo of my niece asleep, clutching the circa 1969 purple paisley umbrella, satisfied me like a fellow user complimenting me on my good junk. And really, I just passed the buck. Here you go, little girl.
The same is true of this blog: these are the things that I’ve carted around with me for years. The ideas bumping around my head. I’m just clearing house. Here you go, reader.