Why does a house look empty even when it's filled with boxes?
The strangest thing I do - I'm sure some others do, but how the hell would I know? - is take things, like, say, a pile of papers related to a particular time period, & stick them in a drawer. So when one is, for example, packing things up in anticipation of a move, one finds a few months' worth of strange memorabilia. A drawer or shelf thus filled, a new pile emerges someplace else.
So I've relived today parts of the six years I've lived in Kentucky in bits & pieces as I pack stuff away. Here are cards sent to me on every possible occasion by the dear sister that died last years, one of which says something like, I hope you know how much I enjoy our conversations. They always put a smile on my face. Over here are forms & stickers relating to some period at WRFL or another. Still here are items that go back even further, to my time in West Virginia, when I tried to work for a literacy program. Our minds often don't need to form memories, they know they're stored in the bits & pieces of life we save on scraps of paper, opened letters, saved notes or flyers.
Some friends from Lexington are coming over tonight. I hope it goes well. I have much such nice people here, & I know at the end of the night I'll wish I were less introverted & spent more time with them. Once a loner, I wrote somewhere, probably imitating or ripping off someone, always alone.
Damn, I have a lot of CDs. I hope I have enough boxes!
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