Remnants of the former Christina Ravens
I stand in the middle of the apartment I will never see again after Monday.
Picking out the pieces of me to keep and the debris of the broken soon-to-be-former life is taking its toll.
There lies my angels given me by my mother, one each year at Christmas. I no longer fit what they used to hold for me. Yet I cannot shatter them. They will be packed at my mother's house, likely never to be seen again until a death occurs and cleaning happens.
There lie all my books, stacks and stacks of sociology and art and folklore and romance and science fiction and lesbian and erotica and humor and self-help and horror and philosophy. I've lost so many books. I cannot bear to part with these. They will be the hardest to move, weight and space.
There lie the coffee mugs with meaningless pictures, shadows of what people thought I liked or cared about. There lie the stuffed animals given as gifts that I love and hate concurrently for what they mean, what they represent. There lie my cds and DVDs and tapes and records and someone else's drivel splayed out in arrogant pomposity that someone cares. The tarot cards with beautiful art. The postcard from New Orleans.
There lie all my art supplies, the viscous paint taped shut and the markers tightly capped, the brushes and papers and tapes and easel. Chalk, pastels, watercolors, acrylics. So many potential hallucinations. So many deluded dreams.
The oddities that I love, the wooden skull box, the small skeleton I put a wedding veil on years ago and never removed, the blow-up Munch's Scream figure. The stuffed orange cat and mouse from Frankenmuth, from Bronner's, that looked just like my cat.
The utilitarian bread machine, the mixer, my bathroom supplies, the scent of juniper and hair gel and shower breeze. My sewing kit from when I was a child that I still use. Games. Puzzles. Most left behind.
My computer. It will be difficult to go without. The week to travel, how long to get a new internet connection?
My broken dreams, my broken loves, my broken crushes, my broken body, my broken soul. Leave them behind. The ghosts will follow me no matter what I do.
The pieces of me ripped off, sewed on, fallen again. What form of Frankensteinian monster will greet California?
Picking out the pieces of me to keep and the debris of the broken soon-to-be-former life is taking its toll.
There lies my angels given me by my mother, one each year at Christmas. I no longer fit what they used to hold for me. Yet I cannot shatter them. They will be packed at my mother's house, likely never to be seen again until a death occurs and cleaning happens.
There lie all my books, stacks and stacks of sociology and art and folklore and romance and science fiction and lesbian and erotica and humor and self-help and horror and philosophy. I've lost so many books. I cannot bear to part with these. They will be the hardest to move, weight and space.
There lie the coffee mugs with meaningless pictures, shadows of what people thought I liked or cared about. There lie the stuffed animals given as gifts that I love and hate concurrently for what they mean, what they represent. There lie my cds and DVDs and tapes and records and someone else's drivel splayed out in arrogant pomposity that someone cares. The tarot cards with beautiful art. The postcard from New Orleans.
There lie all my art supplies, the viscous paint taped shut and the markers tightly capped, the brushes and papers and tapes and easel. Chalk, pastels, watercolors, acrylics. So many potential hallucinations. So many deluded dreams.
The oddities that I love, the wooden skull box, the small skeleton I put a wedding veil on years ago and never removed, the blow-up Munch's Scream figure. The stuffed orange cat and mouse from Frankenmuth, from Bronner's, that looked just like my cat.
The utilitarian bread machine, the mixer, my bathroom supplies, the scent of juniper and hair gel and shower breeze. My sewing kit from when I was a child that I still use. Games. Puzzles. Most left behind.
My computer. It will be difficult to go without. The week to travel, how long to get a new internet connection?
My broken dreams, my broken loves, my broken crushes, my broken body, my broken soul. Leave them behind. The ghosts will follow me no matter what I do.
The pieces of me ripped off, sewed on, fallen again. What form of Frankensteinian monster will greet California?