"Hello?"
"What's up?"
"You called me."
"And I called to say 'what's up!'" I'm not getting out of this one.
"Well--" I'm standing in the doorway of my closet with one hand on the phone and one hand on the shelf, my face is buried in folds of clothing, and suddenly I can't breathe. "I don't think I can do this." Tears are welling up. They are just clothes. What's wrong with me?
"Come on, you're the most non-hoarding person I know!"
"But..." I begin to ramble between swallowed sobs.
She interrupts, "Well, anyway, guess what? The baby is kicking now." And "Did you know a milk shake is just empty calories?" And "Guess what? I'm getting married!" And "Remember that time when--" As my brain travels across the country to rest on my best friend's lap, my hands are throwing things into the toss-out-pile, the maybe-think-about-storing-it pile (because you can't handle the thought of not possessing it at the moment), the recycle-please pile, and sadly-the-garbage-bin.
Two people in one space surrounded by the years in New York, the years in love, the years cohabiting, the many avatars of ourselves and our imaginations. We can't walk without falling.
This is me as executioner. This lives. This dies.
I am supposed to kill artist me.
I am supposed to kill knitter me.
I am supposed to kill sentimental me.
I am supposed to kill living in New York me.
I am supposed to kill yoga teacher me.
I am supposed to kill academic me.
I am supposed to kill chef me.
etc.
Maybe if I only had to bury them it would be easier. But I know inside that I'd sneak some things out of the country. But they look at me with these sad eyes filled with hope and dreams of what could be and it's hard. I'm thinking this as I dust off the cover of the "Guatemala 2005" hanging wall calendar. Can I really live without this?
Purging on a full moon isn't a good idea emotionally as it gets quite intense. Or maybe that's the only day you should really do it.
Today I'm casually thumbing through the paperwork-to-be-sorted pile feeling good about last night's meltdown and subsequent breakthrough when a small piece of paper torn from a notebook falls to the ground.
I wish I knew
I was dying
50 years ago
because I would
have paid more
attention to what
I pushed aside
Past me watching present me and leaving her a note. Future me watching present me tells past me that leaving a note would be a good idea. Future me is past me and writes the note for present me. Present me is future me and past me too.
"What's up?"
"You called me."
"And I called to say 'what's up!'" I'm not getting out of this one.
"Well--" I'm standing in the doorway of my closet with one hand on the phone and one hand on the shelf, my face is buried in folds of clothing, and suddenly I can't breathe. "I don't think I can do this." Tears are welling up. They are just clothes. What's wrong with me?
"Come on, you're the most non-hoarding person I know!"
"But..." I begin to ramble between swallowed sobs.
She interrupts, "Well, anyway, guess what? The baby is kicking now." And "Did you know a milk shake is just empty calories?" And "Guess what? I'm getting married!" And "Remember that time when--" As my brain travels across the country to rest on my best friend's lap, my hands are throwing things into the toss-out-pile, the maybe-think-about-storing-it pile (because you can't handle the thought of not possessing it at the moment), the recycle-please pile, and sadly-the-garbage-bin.
Two people in one space surrounded by the years in New York, the years in love, the years cohabiting, the many avatars of ourselves and our imaginations. We can't walk without falling.
This is me as executioner. This lives. This dies.
I am supposed to kill artist me.
I am supposed to kill knitter me.
I am supposed to kill sentimental me.
I am supposed to kill living in New York me.
I am supposed to kill yoga teacher me.
I am supposed to kill academic me.
I am supposed to kill chef me.
etc.
Maybe if I only had to bury them it would be easier. But I know inside that I'd sneak some things out of the country. But they look at me with these sad eyes filled with hope and dreams of what could be and it's hard. I'm thinking this as I dust off the cover of the "Guatemala 2005" hanging wall calendar. Can I really live without this?
Purging on a full moon isn't a good idea emotionally as it gets quite intense. Or maybe that's the only day you should really do it.
Today I'm casually thumbing through the paperwork-to-be-sorted pile feeling good about last night's meltdown and subsequent breakthrough when a small piece of paper torn from a notebook falls to the ground.
I wish I knew
I was dying
50 years ago
because I would
have paid more
attention to what
I pushed aside
Past me watching present me and leaving her a note. Future me watching present me tells past me that leaving a note would be a good idea. Future me is past me and writes the note for present me. Present me is future me and past me too.
Did she really say "non-hoarding"? I'm thinking a lot about the way yogis talk, and I'm finding it kind of funny lately.
ReplyDeleteyeah but shes not a yogi at all.
ReplyDeletebut i do know what you mean :)
I leave notes for Future Me, too. Sometimes I'm really floored by the significance of the moments when I come across them.
ReplyDeleteI'm so excited to read about your experiences in Mysore!
If I don't leave notes for Future Me, I never know what's going on. I've woken up in the middle of the night with something I need to remember the next day and have to write it on my hand. When I wake up and brush my teeth, I look down and think, "huh... well, I guess I need to call Mom today!". Elise- good luck with all your preparations. I'm sure it seems very overwhelming right now, but pretty soon it'll just be another memory.
ReplyDeleteyeah, it gets hairy sometimes, but overall, I cannot wait to jump into that southern star hotel swimming pool and squat in my very own indian toilet! Oh and the papaya! The jaggery! The cows! India here I come!
ReplyDeleteI've read your post many times - if you read it out loud it would make a compelling one woman play or monologue about someone on the verge of major life change.
ReplyDeleteThe last paragraph reminded me of Albee's "Three Tall Women." The ending anyway.
next time I'm on the subway, I'll be sure to read my next blog post at the top of my lungs maybe to the tune of "Surrey with a Fringe on Top"
ReplyDeletehttp://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BJXvdKSczkY
Thanks!
:)