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if i'd kept every attempt at making another entry in this journal, i'd have the volume of an encyclopaedia written by now. all of it, a load of old bollocks. craptastic. derivative. redundant. very allegorical, if i may philosophize. simply put: everywhere, there's clutter. internal and external. case in point: for years, i'd kept my birth certificate in a simple little box, where it's resided happily (if there is happiness in inanimity. whoee, i just made a word.). Somehow, some way, it has migrated from the safety of this sanctuary to vanish into thin air. Not entirely unlike the magical disappearance of that C1ash ticket that i scanned for this site, many months ago. it was there... then, it was not. vanished. lots of other things have met this same fate, especially recently. lighters. forms. photographs. there's got to be a secret storeroom in that little house, somewhere, filled to the rafters with all of the disappeared things. Just as likely, remembering an article i'd read about a restored JeffersonianMansion, maybe rats (which we don't have) had made off with everything, and have insulated the crawlspaces and attic with all of it. probably, though, it's all still in plain sight... just covered or sifted into empty spaces between everything else that clutters my life. maybe it's a psychological thing... you gather stuff if your own self image is lacking. you define yourself by the scraps, the collections, the hidden boxes of treasure... maybe it can be rationalized that all of the bits as a whole make up a person. doubtful. now, all of the extras are becoming an obstacle, making it impossible to find any one thing in particular... until it all becomes an unreasonable burden. i'm wondering if this isn't the case, in some small way, with Miss Jane... who i am now referring to as Yoko (her goal seems to be to split me into a direction that only she is aware). it's been mentioned here about her personal intolerance of things made of glass. last week, a neon sign that i've had for years met a shattering end from it's spot on the wall when she decided that the living room need to be primed for painting, with all of the furniture still in place (this, before we'd finished the bedroom). impossible to replace. most of my pint glasses have met the same fate, as well as too many other things to mention. perhaps, subconsciously, she's dealing with the clutter. one piece at a time. mostly, mine. this is all just idle speculation, probably. it does feel like all of this... stuff... is like a suit of chains that i'm bound in, trying to swim... and there's not much air making it to my lungs. another cause for struggle in making the words come, recently, is the monotony. No highs, all lows... though i've been trying to find elevation through chemistry, the only place that has come close for much too long, outside of the escape of occasional soccer matches or radio shows. the scenario has been this: routine-routine-routine; numb myself until the next regimen of routine. even the escapes are becoming monotonous. and, something that keeps returning to mind is the opening sentence of theHaunting, by ShirelyJackson: No live organism can continue for long to exist sanely under conditions of absolute reality; even larks and katydids are supposed, by some, to dream So. there it is. absolute reality. petty distraction. monotony. there's got to be room for some healthy influence. a positive means of coping. a way to see beyond the clutter. love... now that would be a welcome prescription. unless it's all used up. the moment i give up on that, i will know that it's over. |
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