I received a back-order today, and as I was putting it away, I discovered a rather sticky situation. Apparently, I had a slow leak for only God knows how long. That's all I'm going to say knowing who reads my blog now. Those that know me well enough can read between the lines and figure it out.
As I was in the process of cleaning the location out, I came upon some relics from a time when I was more naive than I am now. An on-ride photo from a theme park's roller coaster, my notes to an e-mail address that I long forgot about detailing an apparent apology to someone I held in high regard to, a (now obsolete) floppy disk containing labeled "Important pictures" possibly containing images I've long forgotten about, a hand-written letter instructing me to "take care of business," and the odd meat thermometer that was wrapped by two scrap pieces of paper with what appeared to be recipes written on them. At the bottom of it all was a painting I did in high school of me as a comic character, hand out stretched in a dramatic pose, tears in my eyes, screaming a name that once held some significance to me.
The memories came rushing back along with the doubts. I put the towel that was lining the location with my laundry and then used the painting, wrapped in a large trash bag, and the face towel from my bathroom to line it to protect the items I was going to put back. As I was putting all the contra ban back, I couldn't help but wonder why I kept those things. And as much as I knew I was better off throwing them away, a part of me told me not to. And I listened to it.
Despite all the doubt I have about that time in my life, despite all the questions on what was the truth and what was a lie, apparently I still have some small piece of hope that what happened was real. And if it was, what happened afterwards should have really hurt me more than it did.
Memories and attachments to the past, even when you question their legitimacy, do affect who you are at this very moment. After finding those objects, I can't help but ask the proverbial question of regret: What if...
Expressing honest thoughts to everyone and no one at the same time.
About Me
Wishlist and Other Nonsense
Followers or Fans
Labels and Tagged Posts
Blog Archive
-
▼
2008
(176)
-
▼
March
(29)
- Birthday Thoughts
- A&E: Avatar and Explination
- The List (Part 2)
- The List (Part 1)
- No Work and No Play
- I honestly do not know!
- Focus Deferred
- 12 Hour Studio Day
- No Leg To Stand On
- Paper: DONE! Art: None?
- Art? What Art?
- Prometheus and Bob
- Porn Subculture & The Online Youth
- For Jason
- Juvenile Moment
- What I Did Wrong
- Part of Me @ Odds
- Should-a Would-a Didn't Done Do
- At School During Spring Break
- How Quickly the Weak Fall
- What we have here is a failure to communicate.
- No Help, No Choice
- Why bother now?
- Good-Bye Virtual Magic Kingdom
- Avatar Sculptures Update
- Relics of the Past Resurfaced
- It's Finally My Turn
- Riddle Me This, Batman!
- Birthday Thesis Theme Park
-
▼
March
(29)
2 comments:
Jon,
I have some of those old floppies and even some CDs with "possibly" important stuff on them. When I got this computer, I lost all the old emails and I was not happy but after almost three years only seldom do I find myself wishing to be able to retrieve one of them.
A time when I was
more naive than I am now--
memories and doubts.
Throwing things away--
part of me told me not to--
I listened to it.
Your very own haiku -- I am not claiming that I wrote them.
Now here is a little story about me. In cleaning out a closet some of my old paintings from forty years ago turned up. I had forgotten that I had even done them. I didn't put them back in the closet. In fact I mailed two of them to someone in Houston, someone I only know from online correspondence. I did tell him that I would send him enough money to mail them on to someone else if he didn't like them. He suggested that I might have an attachment to them. I said that I didn't think so since they were out of sight so long that I didn't even remember doing them.
As you get older and hear others keep retelling their stories, you will note that the stories change as time goes by, and after a while even you will not be sure what the truth is even if you were there when the event happened.
Robert
You're speaking in such thick code I don't understand exactly what happened - backorder? the location? contraban? Hmm. What I can figure out is this: something was leaking, you investigated the leak and found some stuff buried there that reminded you of a past relationship. Retrospect is causing you to question the validity of this relationship and how much it actually means, or meant..?
It's amazing what sort of bond we develop with things, and how they serve as conduits for our past. It's kind of mystical.
I used to save everything. Every scrap from experiences that I thought might possibly be a cherished memory ended up in a box. Letters, keychains, a shoe, bottlecaps, all kinds of scraps of paper... A bunch of junk really. From time to time I would look back at it and realize that I didn't recall what it was or why I kept it, and would throw it away, slowly whittling the pile down to a single shoebox. I try to save very little now. There is no physical object that can encapsulate a memory with the dignity it deserves. What I do save are writings, drawings, first-hand reflections of my experiences.
The older I get, the less of an attachment I have to my past. Sometimes I even resent parts of it. Granted it is essentially what defines the person that I am now. But all the more reason for resentment. I'm embarrassed by some of my more dramatic moments of weakness. I rue the way scorn and rejection from my early teens has twisted me into a cynical, hateful, dysfunctional recluse. And I lament the lack of self-awareness that clouded my sexual development until I was nearly twenty.
Even more than I detest the weaknesses of my younger years, I loathe the things that connect me to that weakened state. While they might define the me from my past, the only serve to infect my future with fear and doubt. They are like festering warts embedded beneath the surface of my skin. The sooner I can carve them out of my life the more confident I feel.
I wonder if the voice telling you to hold onto that memorabilia is part of you that's afraid to redefine yourself in the present. Take a look at the new Jon: the graduating-from-college Jon that's built a solid platform for his senior presentation, the Jon that's working an awesome job in a moviehouse, the Jon that braved several Sunday afternoons trying to learn how to drive, and has participated in at least three group shows. The brave, confident Jon that I have come to know is not defined by painful nostalgia that's mildewing in a leaky closet.
Did you fix the leak?
Post a Comment