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June 6, 2010 / Prof Cupcake.

Home: or where the heart is: Or box up your memories for a sentimental day in your forties.

I graduated almost a year ago. And then I did nothing. Except pack up and leave Scotland. One year, one facial wart, and several drinks too many later I am defiantly in the same place. (only minus a facial wart and plus a few beer belly pounds, but whose counting) (I am. Seven) so here’s the deal universe, I’m going to move some where new, not get another awkward growth and start fresh, like Tai does in clueless.

See my parents are moving from the homestead. Which is not really their choice, but more the result of an evil man and the power of greed. (you might think I am being overdramatic and free with my words, but fuck no this man is evil. Kill your babies just to watch the light leave your eyes evil.) (glad we are clear on that point.) (you know, just want to make sure you know I mean EVIL. In caps, not like how drier is evil cuz it just gently massages my clothes into dampness.) YET within each cloud there is a silver lining, however in this cloud there are just cobwebs. Trying to dig through the filth of my life I am confronted with the startling fact that I am a hoarder. One of those people who keeps nail clippings just in case one needs them to give to fairy so he can build a road in exchange for a pot of gold. (what. That makes no sense. Just like keeping them makes no sense. Not that I actually kept my toe nails.). I hide things in secret places, nooks, crannies, small crawl spaces, yet the ones who enjoy these memories happen to be the local spiders and mice. I haven’t the foggiest clue what many of my hoarded goods are. I assume I kept old notes, scraps of paper, old erasers, chewed on pencils to start some reminiscent natter with my self.

“Oh god, remember that day you went to How caverns?”

“that was such fun.”

“oh and Dylan told that joke about the English teacher.”

“mr….?”

“Mr. Bradly.”

“oh yes. Mr. bradly… how long ago it was.”

None of that is happening. It could have been a stranger who lived in this room, with these crashing waves of junk. Really I opened the closet, it consumed me. A toothy mouth of old photos and dollar bills. I counted them 76 singles squirreled away on one closet shelf.

It’s cathartic to clean. I have three boxes in which to pack my life, I feel wonderfully ruthless as I chuck junk out the few things which hold memory along with the clutter. Like every single ‘participant’ ribbon I ever won for swimming. Why did I ever save so many glaring symbols of mediocrity? Now I’ve simply saved a few first place ribbons, so what if I know deep down inside that on the days of those meets every other kid who could swim in the tri-state area must have been sick with salmonella, whatever, I don’t care, in 40 years when I open these boxes, all be surprised, all find a first place ribbon from the 50 back stroke when I was 12. (also I would be lying if I was not hiding some first place ribbons there in case my lover sees them when I unpack this shit at forty and says “I had no idea you were such a good swimmer, look how many first place ribbons you have.” And all grin and say something about how I’m filled with secrets, which I’m not, and will most likely have told him everything about myself in the first like 3 years of our relationship and the fact that we have been together for like 17 is just astounding to me as I’ve run out of things to say, stories of my past a barren and yet all to traveled wasteland of boredom, leaving me terrified he’s going to have a midlife crisis, or even worse just a moment of age indifferent realization and leave me because I am stale. I’m counting on these little moments to push us on together so one day when I’m incontinent I will have some one hold my hand and tell me its ok, and it wont be a nurse I am paying. Or a robot.)

Yet the swimming trophy I one when I was 10, which they gave to everyone who did not get a real trophy, the PERSERVERANCE trophy I have kept. It’s made of cheap gold painted plastic and it is my new life motto. I may be one dumpster trip away from garbaging my life, but I have a perseverance award, just like everyone who was a manta ray. Except for the good swimmers, they have first place award.

The hardest things to chuck are strangely the posters. I have stared at them for years. The same images of Zion national park, and Pele the Hawaiian fire goddess, or the eye witness rock collections, or my dark knight batman posters. These are the images that would canvas the walls of my heart if you opened my chest up and looked. Maybe it would be my whole room. The wood on the walls behind which the insulation has long been eaten away to make room for the causeways and homes of the squirrels and mice I shared my room with. A single skylight that tracked the fall of the moon; some nights the light would flood my room and I would awake as if looking into an oncoming celestial headlight. And the rafters, which are jutting wooden ribs through the walls, which never bowed as I swung from my dresser to my bed as a child, a baby Tarzan on an old telephone line.

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2 Comments

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  1. kelly / Jun 8 2010 12:18 am

    Thinking of you, my love. I miss you tons (we both do!). I know it’s not the same by any means, but my home is always your home. Love love love xox

  2. Elisabetta / Jun 8 2010 2:17 am

    you are not middle-age, so this is not a middle age crisis. it’s just a ‘beginning of entirely adult life’ crisis. welcome to the rest of your life, it will be adventurous and scary, but by now you are ready for it! xx

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