Archivist of the heart
I'm at that stage of unpacking during a move where everything that is left is most of the little stuff that you just throw in boxes, not sure if you really want it or not, if there will be a place for it or not, but you take it anyway, planning to sort through it and throw it away later.
Or at least, that's how it always is for me at some point in the frantic packing spree. So when I unpack is when I do most of the sorting through the accumulated nick knacks and old clothes, the books and papers. Papers from old warranties, software bits, all my grad school notes and handouts--these latter that I still haven't quite gotten up to throwing away yet.
Once upon a time, I was going to be an English professor, and some days, I am still sad that I did not do it, even though while I was pretty damn good at teaching, it wasn't where my heart lie. (Honestly, I was using the program as a convoluted way to indulge my passion for scholarship and writing without having to dare the act of courage to do my own writing for myself.) But I still have files of notes, handouts, preps for classes and ideas never explored that I am saving, my morgue that I need to go through now and again. They pile up in my drawer like leaves, but really, this process of sorting and pitching what I don't need now is shedding the old skin from my heart. I have to take it in steps. Some progress was made today, until I found old cards from an old beloved girlfriend and the funeral clippings from when Beth died. These leaves will go back, pressed on my bookshelves in a special place, pressed tight between memories and my heart.
I'd like to live more free of clutter, shaping my cell to be just a bit more sparse, but it just doesn't quite work for me as much as I hope. I tend to store too much memory in things, especially things With Words On Them, hence the 9000 bookshelves in the house.
Sure, I could cull more books, go all digital. I could take the cds out of their cases and place them all in a black binder, the inserts tossed or stored hidden behind each shiny disk in their envelop.
Then again, I can't press roses or love letters between the pages of my Kindle just yet, so I resolve myself to cleaning out my files periodically. I'm ok with that.
Or at least, that's how it always is for me at some point in the frantic packing spree. So when I unpack is when I do most of the sorting through the accumulated nick knacks and old clothes, the books and papers. Papers from old warranties, software bits, all my grad school notes and handouts--these latter that I still haven't quite gotten up to throwing away yet.
Once upon a time, I was going to be an English professor, and some days, I am still sad that I did not do it, even though while I was pretty damn good at teaching, it wasn't where my heart lie. (Honestly, I was using the program as a convoluted way to indulge my passion for scholarship and writing without having to dare the act of courage to do my own writing for myself.) But I still have files of notes, handouts, preps for classes and ideas never explored that I am saving, my morgue that I need to go through now and again. They pile up in my drawer like leaves, but really, this process of sorting and pitching what I don't need now is shedding the old skin from my heart. I have to take it in steps. Some progress was made today, until I found old cards from an old beloved girlfriend and the funeral clippings from when Beth died. These leaves will go back, pressed on my bookshelves in a special place, pressed tight between memories and my heart.
I'd like to live more free of clutter, shaping my cell to be just a bit more sparse, but it just doesn't quite work for me as much as I hope. I tend to store too much memory in things, especially things With Words On Them, hence the 9000 bookshelves in the house.
Sure, I could cull more books, go all digital. I could take the cds out of their cases and place them all in a black binder, the inserts tossed or stored hidden behind each shiny disk in their envelop.
Then again, I can't press roses or love letters between the pages of my Kindle just yet, so I resolve myself to cleaning out my files periodically. I'm ok with that.