You’re never who you used to think you are.
Today is the first day of my last year of formal education and the beginning my final magical graduate school internship, at a place I would have never thought I would intern. Frankly, I chose it because the thought of what it entails makes me nauseous, not because it’s a terrible job, but because it involves a lot of leadership and public speaking. THAT terrifies me.
But I embrace the fear.
After all, FEAR puts you outside your comfort zone into a twilight area in which true growth and evolution can begin.
No sleepwalking allowed.
Stop the roller coaster.
I just wanna get off.
I’m not having fun anymore.
Infact, I am quite nauseous.
The older I get, the more acrophobic
Gonzo was right.
“This place is getting to me. I think I’m getting the Fear…”
I know I stood in line,
I freely walked onboard,
a love-illusioned somnambulist;
a hopeless romantic.
Ignoring all my jitters and
embracing all his hope.
I locked that safety bar down.
Oh, how infectious his war wearied honeymoon period…
so easily I accommodated the cycles,
such simple Newtonian thoughts
what goes up always comes down,
I guess I forgot the apple and
I’m too fucking old for carnival rides.
The last two days, my house has been trashed.
Papers are strewn about, there are open boxes on tables, counters, floors, files open and stacked, from room to room. It seriously looks like a crazy manic event has gone on here. Maybe it has, I don’t know. I digress.
It started out at a vain attempt to find my seventh grade school picture to compare to the girlchild’s, but it became a self-imposed therapeutic event. As I have been going through boxes of my life, looking at pictures, questioning why I have kept the wrapper for a package of garbage pail kids for 25+ years; I have been processing. Letting go. Thinking about people I haven’t thought about, wondering why I kept things they gave me, notes they wrote. I even wrote a poem about it.
Dealing with things left undealt with in a millenia. It’s like the end of my own episode of ‘Hoarders’.…keep, sell, trash….keep, sell, trash...Only mine is keep, share or trash….It’s been cathartic to say the least.
Now my house is still beyond trashed and I am sure that my half unpacked and sorted boxes are pretty physically representative of my brain these days. BUT I have also began to delete, resort and annihilate my narcissistic self-representation I call my Facebook, so it’s been multitaskinspirationalistic. And really, if you know me, I function soooo much better with 8923470387304750345 things to do. Don’t let me get bored. I will think of a reason to save a wrapper.
Throwing things away feels good.
Sharing forgotten and remembered memories for that matter feels good.
It’s been a long time coming, this unpacking of Jani.
You should try it; throw something away from your childhood.
Look at it. Hold it. Share it. Remember and then toss it.
Why do you keep what you keep?
They’re only things, after all.
I dealt with things better once upon a time and I am trying to relearn that now.
I’m going through my boxes. The tangible and intangible ones 🙂 I found this relic from my past and decided to share:
Now mind you, this is from the mind of a 13 year old girl who read a lot of John Saul, Dean Koontz, and Stephen King at the time.
Also note the magical actual copy and pasting going on!
My first memory of being photographed;
I’m sitting on a pyramid.
A pyramid of boxes and
I remember, every time I smell a sharpie.
I’m tired of packing up;
I’m tired of moving on;
I’m tired of starting over;
I’m sick of all this stuff.
I compartmentalize my identity.
My identity is defined by my compartmentalization.
My present is defined by my rationalization.
My inner dialogue is defined by my memorization.
A file for every life and a life in every file.
A new box, an old box,
boxes left unpacked
marked “Contents: Nostalgia.’
Oh here’s an identity based on men;
men who I allow to shape me,
men who I allow to change me,
men who I allow to embrace me.
Here’s another: based on my family;
what they wanted to accomplish,
what they wanted kept secret,
what they didn’t realize they were teaching me.
The ones in back
have crushed corners and yellowed tape.
The ones up front,
obviously and clearly labeled for all to see.
So many boxes,
neatly pushed aside
to be dealt with later
My fortress of solitude,
built with cardboard concrete.
Picked up and moved again,
it’s my one constant.
Forever shoved into dark places
only brought out to reminisce
or to remind myself, exactly,
how to repackage myself for consumption.
I notice literally everyone in my world is having relationship issues, so I offer this. It’s, of course, through my lens but its a nice start because I am sure everyone who reads this is guilty of at least one:
Soooo how about: