Something about cleaning always seems to resurrect old memories. Some would say memories are like ghosts; they linger and sometimes haunt. I prefer to think of memories as mummies. Dust them off and the recollections arise, temporarily, again to walk the earth. Real and unencumbered.
Saturday morning I woke up late after being out with some friends the night before and decided to begin sorting through my junk closet. My junk closet contains all manner of stuff; exercise stuff, albums, papers I decided I need for a reason which was clearer at some other time, off season clothes, and tons of notebooks.
I love to write. Even in elementary school I would write down my dreams and create stories in notebooks. English and History were my favorite subjects; one, I could write or learn about writing, and the other, I could hear stories.
Mysteries have always been my preferred genre; the turns and twists, looking for possible clues. The first story I remember writing was detective thriller. I was eight and very proud of the way the detective hunted down the jewel thief; reviewing all the clues in the shower - the way I would think of plot lines.
I still have the story. I have kept it with a bazillion other notebooks and journals.
I found eighty pages of historical fiction and thirty pages of a CIA mystery. Both started about eight years ago and yet to be finished. I flipped through them reminiscing the countless hours I'd sit at a bar stool writing while Maria, my best friend, was tending bar. Mummies.
I'd always ask Maria’s opinion about what I was working on. She’d flood me the possibilities in which path the story could take. I’d pick one, maybe incorporate two or three, and start writing again until the bar closed for the night.
The hours I engaged in writing, crafting are non-existent in my day now, but I see the joy of pen (yes, I said pen) in hand scrawling out ideas and plots and elementary poems. I hated typing them out later on the computer. Now I rather type than write even though I miss the feel of calluses on the inner part of my index finger and thumb.
Maybe my junk room should be renamed as the "remembrance closet"; remember to finish, sentimental memories; cleaning memories… Maybe this is why I have a junk closet because I like watching mummies arise and walk.
5 comments:
I've always maintained that you write exceptionally well. If you ever need a new career, writing is calling your name.
I miss the feel of a pen in my hand as well. I used to have this callous on one of my fingers. In law school, I took all of my notes by hand. Now that callous is gone and I sorta miss it.
I've kept a diary of sorts that is full of wonderful stories from my time on two different submarines. My writing deteriorated so much by the time I got out, some entries are unreadable.
I've been trying to record it all on my computer, but when I look at it, it's just not the same. No grease, oil or sweat stains just makes it too sterile.
I really enjoy your posts, I can only imagine what kind of things are in the bazillions of handwritten books.
My first love in reading has always been mysteries. Christie, Sayers, Allingham, my grandfather had them all, and I would raid his shelves or he would send them to me. I still love a good mystery although they are hard to find these days amongst the thrillers.
Love the image of memory as mummy, by the way.
Mummies... aren't... scary..?
Ditto TL, that's a great visual. I'm a very careless saver. Once I was cleaning out my garage and found a journal. I had spent an entire year chronicling my life & times and thoughts, deep stuff, in the bottom of a crate with a bunch of greasy construction debris and tools.
I'm happy that blogs were invented, keeps things a little more tidy.
Oh, man. My entire office is one huge rememberance closest. Perhaps that's why I can't get anything done...
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