cold
Cass says I'm cold. And it's true. I'm surprisingly pragmatic and unsentimental for a girl who consistently cries at sappy endings, romantic endings, sappy commercials, etc. I flush with goosebumps all over my body at music - be it Porgy and Bess or Wagner, any of the many and varied things that touches me, and my entire body responds. And I throw out old prom photos, statuary gifts from Cass, my grandmother's broken watch, my corsages from my proms and the one from my piano teacher's wedding, which I played at.
It's surprising the contradictions one has, isn't it? I have major packrat tendencies which have only been tempered by the late adoption of a clear-headed pragmatism about memories - ie, that one can keep the memories without keeping the STUFF. And life is so much more soothing without - or maybe that's only because I know I'll never truly live without. Too many activities, too many projects, there will always be clutter, and I suppose I'll always be fighting the wave that threatens to drown me.
I cleaned out a good deal today, preparing for the move. I want to have another go at it tomorrow. I didn't, however, work on my thesis, despite the fact that both activities are much the same - aggressively culling the wheat from the chaff. I wonder why that is? Perhaps I just wanted something more tangible today.
Cassidy would like me to point out that he was "just joking," but I refuse to strike his comment from the record. Not because it stung, but because it's novel. Kind of like people talking about me as a theorist or me as a writer. Both are so entirely unfamiliar to my concept of self, just as this coldness and ability to separate oneself from sentimental attachment. I always forget how much I enjoy a good purge, just the same as a short haircut. It's so liberating to realize, "it's only stuff" or "it's only hair," don't you think?
I'm only just beginning.