I’ve been thinking about tearing my past away lately. This has been me letting go of documents and physical writings. I’ve started to clean out my web bookmarks. I’ve been donating and giving away things which mean a lot to me, and trying to questions all of my fundamentals.
Part of this exercise is pragmatic. We’ve moved into the tiny house and it scoffs at my original Fugazi cassette tape, the one I have to keep cracking open to fix tangles. So I’ve found my closure in photography, taking artful snapshots of those things I love and then moving on. We all have to find our way out of the towering piles of magazines and saved milk cartons. I hope I’ve done enough to protect myself from a future of believing things have meaning.
Soon what begins to happen is that you go through this repeated process of holding items in review. You move it from its tomb, you touch it, you get the wash of feelings, you move it to the keep, or donate, or trash box, and you try again. With the kids, the stuff that has the most meaning is in extreme, either something they created that truly is remarkable, or some token gift they gave you to show their love of you. Take a picture, move on. And who would have told me that the things from when I was 17 would mean so much to me. In your hands again, these things are time machines and they hurl you back to another time, but in this reality, it is just a plastic toy, or an article from a magazine. How do you fight this psychic magic? Move into a small house where space is an absolute premium, it gets easier.
The past haunts me, always has, why do I struggle to drag it everywhere I go.