At every time in the last six years, I have had a substantial collection of personal items stored in boxes somewhere other than where I was living. Generally, this has meant a closet full of big Tupperware containers, duct taped shut between visits.
When the chance or the need arises to dig through the stack, the result is a kind of auto-archeology. Things of persistent value tend to stay near the top of the stack, because they have been left there by past expeditions. Things near the bottom – rarely glimpsed – are likely photographs or letters from more than a decade in the past.
Today’s minor foray was motivated by a search for writable CDs for the Cabin Fever trip this weekend, so it was both superficial and unsuccessful.
a fascinating experience, even when the layers are merely months deep.
Home
eponymous horn
…It’s not tidy, and I’ve been meaning to clean out the closet. Debris left behind by the progression of my life is tucked away in drawers, pinned to corkboards, pinched between the mattress and the headboard of my bed.
It’s all primary sources, diaries, evidence A, evidence B. There’s enough diary entries, drawings, fiction, candy-wrappers, poetry, old makeup, theatre programmes, Polaroids, DNA to reconstruct a life…