The house feels really strange

I'm moving. I'm sorting, editing and throwing away. I have a considerable collection of what I call archival files; my diaries and journals going back to 1968 as well as plays, screenplays, collections of poetry, novels, short stories. This also includes reviews for my work, PR photos, and magazines in which my work was published or reviewed. This takes up apprx. four milk cartons. But wait there is more.

There is the hat I am wearing. Which belonged to my grandfather. May he rest in peace. Yesterday I told myself you are throwing it out. And you are throwing out Suzie, the doll I've had since I've been five, the sweater my mother knit when I was fourteen, the multi-colored gypsy skirt that I was arrested in (which I wore with a pink feather boa and a walking stick), the pink pearl necklace I wore on my wedding day, the faux Cartier tank watch from my father, and a small marble antique clock engraved with: If time stood still I would love you forever, 1980. In addition, I have birthday cards going back to the 1970's, letters, and hundreds of photos.

I have a hand-written letter from a brother who no longer speaks to me. It's dated 1977. He writes: Everyone is moving away. The house feels really strange. My heart ached for him when I read this. However, I am challenging myself to edit this collection of archives. I had my grandfather's cap in my hand over the garbage bag, but I couldn't do it. I just couldn't. And not to Suzie either. I did throw away the pearls and I did burn a letter from my ex. I finally threw away the boarding pass for my flight home to say good bye to my mother. That was difficult. I trashed the skirt, but not before smelling it. I know--- its weird.

I wondered: what would happen if I threw all this out? What if I threw out the small maroon diary that begins in 1968 and contains an account of the night I was raped? What if I threw out a notebook from 1969 filled with poetry and covered in romantic graffiti, Lillian Loves Fred. Then Joe. Then Fred again. A three ring binder of autumn leaves I collected before I moved, pictures of my brothers, poetry I clipped from The New Yorker--- a kind of momento mori to my days, my childhood, my family at 2616 circa 1977. Talismans. Proof I existed. Proof of the past. But do I need all this anymore?

Practically, it takes up so much space! I've been carrying it for 32 years. I've needed it to shape and create my identity, I've needed it for continuity. The thought of throwing it all away filled me with awe, imagine: a blank canvas. At a time when I really need to recreate myself. I just don't know if I can do it. I just don't know what I still need. Last May I challenged myself to ruthlessly edit my library--- and succeeded in dividing it by half. This has really pleased me. I like the spare lines of each section: literature, philosophy, fiction, psychology, mysticism and religion.

But the hat. I don't know if I can throw away the hat. And if I can't throw away the hat. I can't throw away anything.

Find the lie I've told to myself

Two things from Jose Rivera. I am using References to Salvador Dali Make Met Hot and Other Plays for my Humanities class this semester.

First, a quote--- the preface to the painfully beautiful Sonnets for an Old Century:

(i who have died am alive again today,

and this is the sun's birthday; this is the birth

day of life and of love and wings: and of the gay

great happening illimitably earth)

--- e.e. cummings, "I Thank You God."

Second, there is an appendix at the end of the book: 36 Assumptions about Writing Plays. Most notable (for me) is number 8:

"Embrace your writer's block. It's nature's way of preserving trees and reputation. Listen to it and try to understand its source. Often writer's block happens because somewhere in your work you've lied to yourself and your subconscious won't let you go any further until you've gone back, erased the lie, stated the truth and started over."

I've decided that this is going to be my goal this fall. Find the lie I've told to myself, erase it and start over.

More scenes from a hot city: Catholic Church

A crumbling Catholic Church on Avenue B. Part ghost-story, part love-story; imagine the wedding between the tall handsome Polish immigrant, now in the military--- who meets the blonde beauty of his life--- my parents. The year is 1953 or 54. The facade is bright and fresh. The park is completely different. There might even be flowers. Perhaps they go across the street after the wedding, have a beer on Avenue A. Maybe I've been there myself.

More scenes from a hot city and a story as well

Props to Joe Strummer, whoever he may be, and y-ever he was anointed with this mural on East 7th Street between A and B. I do know that it was the first bar I went to in NYC, 1989. I'm always glad to see its still in operation, although the name seems to change weekly, so I shan't include it in this post. But it's easiest enough to find---along the southern end of Tompkins Square Park where anarchy still reigns supreme; junkies, street kids, artists, crazy people, young families, wild dogs and once a great horned owl.

True story. Saw a crowd gathered, looking up, a tall towering tree. I said, What's going on? A lady said, It's a great horned owl. And I looked up, way up, and standing tall on a high branch of a huge tree, sat the owl. As if she hadn't a care in the world--- completely unaware that she was surrounded by a worshipful crowd of human beings. And yesterday, no owl--- but Joe Strummer, peering out from behind his shades on another Africa-hot August afternoon. The kind of day where you sit down and watch the carnival. Because it is multitudinous.

I confess:

In the early 90's when I worked at P.S. 122, I'd eat my burrito here. I would stake out the Polish ladies. Sit next to them. I just wanted to hear them speak. My mother is always here. I see her: La-la-Lottie, pretty blonde, who lived across the street in a 5th floor walkup, heading out to Coney Island, with her friend, Francis. And here I am, a half century later, snapping pictures, having brunch. Checking out Joe Strummer and other wild life.

Fractals

What the Gods haven't already told us--- can be explained by geometry. Fractal theory to be exact. One tree can explain an entire forest. As above, so below. Or just a bunch of pretty flowers sold by my neighbor, landscape architect, who grows them on her farm in CT.

More iconography

I have this voodoo doll from my sister. This gal is supposed to bring me happiness and bliss. She's not a hottie by any means and some might find her downright frightening; her arms and legs are made of swamp grass, she wears a walnut shell for a headdress, and her gown is essentially scraps of fabric, lace and netting haphazardly sewn together. She is totemic and ageless, primitive--- issuing forth from the limbic portion of the brain, the dark wisdom of the past. On the other hand, she might just be a stock souvenir for all the white people, hurricanes in hand, as they browse through Bourbon Street. I don't know--- I'm not cynical. I like my dollie. For me, she lives in the same land as Jung's shadow self; the dark side of our soul that terrifies us, yet if we embrace it, hold it close to our hearts, bring it out into the bright light of day, our reward, if we believe Jung, is wisdom. I don't know if this is true. I just like the fact that she both repels and comforts me.