Raindrops on roses, etc etc

I never throw anything away. My room at home is piles and piles of letters, songs, unfinished poems and boxes full of pictures. But everything I hold onto is not as romantic as that. I also have tiny t-shirts from kindergarten classes, a Fred Flintstone figurine that I squeezed into a Veryfine juice bottle (this contraption may in fact be the 8th wonder of the world... I thought about giving it away as the prize for the homemade present contest), and other assorted phone numbers, clothes, shoes, unpaid bills, etc. I used to have this fantasy that I was saving it all for when I was famous, so that the president of my fan club could auction it all off on EBay and give me a hefty percentage. But it has been getting slightly out of hand; I have become a collector of other things too, of friendships, of jobs, of men. I keep holding onto all of these things because hey, I might need them one day, and if I throw them away I will look for them, they will be gone and I will be lost.

I get so attached to all of my things, they somehow begin to define me. When I am walking down the street with my brown tinted sunglasses and favorite flowing jean skirt, I feel more confident, and happy with the me that I present to the world. I like it when people admire all of my stuff, or my tastes, or how I manage to work two and three jobs and take twenty-one credits a semester. And its true, I do get known by these things, these labels that I have taken on because of the physical things I like to surround myself with. Maybe its just not a label either, perhaps it actually affects my personality, perhaps I am truly what my exterior presence displays to the world. Then again, it’s probably more likely that I not all those things, but parts of me would certainly like to be.

So where does that leave me? Lately I have been throwing things away. Trying to. There is a constant struggle to break free of the emotional attachment to these objects of old that represented to the world the way that I used to be. I remember when I painted over my dresser this summer, I painted right over all those names and messages that though they would last forever, that I thought would serve as a solid record of people who cared about me, who were once a big part of my life. Something to look at on the hard days to remind me that I was not always alone. But still, I got out my paint, and took specifc, warm joys in running my brush over the smooth surface, gently coating the memories of the past with new ambitions for the future. And I think that’s really what this is all about.

Ironically I remember when he came over later this summer and saw the dresser, painted in black, adorned with gold, covered in new things that are of new importance to me, and he bitched about his name being covered up. Well I thought to myself, “What the hell does it matter? It’s still there; it’s just not on top anymore.” And that right there, is EXACTLY what this is all about.

I never stopped loving my things. I never traded them in for newer or better ones. I just used them as foundation for loving other things. As I grow and my interests change, the image I begin to project gets bigger and badder and more adult and closer to where I want to end up after it is all done and said. So, I have been tucking away some things for EBay, the things that can’t really be painted over, that have to stay as a memory in themselves. Like Fred*. Holding onto only the necessary as I stumble along the narrow path.


*I meant Flintstone. Ok so the boy’s name just happens to be the same.