Okay, so here's what's going on...

Regular readers will have heard me lament about the state of my house. I know that slovenly housekeeping is something of a cliche, and a great many people talk about what a horrid state their house is in when what they are REALLY saying is, "There are eight pieces of mail laying on the coffee table and I haven't vaccuumed since Saturday week."

No, that's not where I'm at. Mind you, I'm not at the point where I'm in danger of being buried alive by my crap, and since I haven't cats or kids I'm not worried about actually being condemned by the health department---but it's bad. Too-damn-much-crap bad.

I need repairs done inside and out asap. Getting someone in here to do it? Even if it's help from a state or county program---especially if it's from a state or county program---okay, so I might have some trouble if official types got a look at the mess.

Not to mention how much it overwhelms me.

Anyway, where I'm going it this is, last Monday evening at Supper Club, CapeGypsy and her hubby offered a proposition---if I clear out a certain volume of stuff, he/they will help me with some of the work I need. Not the roof, alas, but painting, basic carpentry, hauling stuff off for me, like that.

The volume is going to be the tricky part. Do you know what a "contractor bag" is? It's a trashbag that's FIVE FEET LONG. Holy shit, that is one huge freaking bag! (My initial reaction was,"That's not a trashbag, it's a condom for Godzilla!") According to Gypsy, there's no limit on how much they can put in the dumpster at their complex, and they're encouraging me to do three bags a week, and be ruthless, says MrGypsy.

I got the bags Friday at the housewarming party and thus far I've filled ONE of those gaping bags just from the crap lying around my room and the adjacent bath. Hey, it's a start.

Ruthless does not describe me very well---I am a major sentimentalist---and I'm flinching at the thought of dumbing things into bags and banishing them. The Gypsys say that they'll drop off anything worthy of donation, so it's not like it'll go to waste...I'm trying to convince myself that really, I DON'T need it.

So that's what's going to be going on in my life for a while to come. Stay tuned for future freak-outs.

Okay, so here's what's going on...

Regular readers will have heard me lament about the state of my house. I know that slovenly housekeeping is something of a cliche, and a great many people talk about what a horrid state their house is in when what they are REALLY saying is, "There are eight pieces of mail laying on the coffee table and I haven't vaccuumed since Saturday week."

No, that's not where I'm at. Mind you, I'm not at the point where I'm in danger of being buried alive by my crap, and since I haven't cats or kids I'm not worried about actually being condemned by the health department---but it's bad. Too-damn-much-crap bad.

I need repairs done inside and out asap. Getting someone in here to do it? Even if it's help from a state or county program---especially if it's from a state or county program---okay, so I might have some trouble if official types got a look at the mess.

Not to mention how much it overwhelms me.

Anyway, where I'm going it this is, last Monday evening at Supper Club, CapeGypsy and her hubby offered a proposition---if I clear out a certain volume of stuff, he/they will help me with some of the work I need. Not the roof, alas, but painting, basic carpentry, hauling stuff off for me, like that.

The volume is going to be the tricky part. Do you know what a "contractor bag" is? It's a trashbag that's FIVE FEET LONG. Holy shit, that is one huge freaking bag! (My initial reaction was,"That's not a trashbag, it's a condom for Godzilla!") According to Gypsy, there's no limit on how much they can put in the dumpster at their complex, and they're encouraging me to do three bags a week, and be ruthless, says MrGypsy.

I got the bags Friday at the housewarming party and thus far I've filled ONE of those gaping bags just from the crap lying around my room and the adjacent bath. Hey, it's a start.

Ruthless does not describe me very well---I am a major sentimentalist---and I'm flinching at the thought of dumbing things into bags and banishing them. The Gypsys say that they'll drop off anything worthy of donation, so it's not like it'll go to waste...I'm trying to convince myself that really, I DON'T need it.

So that's what's going to be going on in my life for a while to come. Stay tuned for future freak-outs.

Who---?

As I said yesterday, I'm entering into a great adventure, trying to winnow 35 years of clutter. And yet, there's more to it.

There's something I've been wrestling with for a while. Recently, AI gave a talk which asked the question, "Who would you be without your stories?" It dealt with the labels we've given ourselves and the amount of potential we have if we strip off those labels.

To me, it resonated on other levels. On a very primal level, as a writer who knows how futile pursuit of the Muse can sometimes be, it was terrifying. No stories? No charecters, no dialog, no plots? It's having my soul's scream echoing in a vast hollow wilderness. Thank goodness that's not the question, right?!

However, with the purge, it's very apropos---these things I need to get rid of carry pieces of my story. Sometimes it's the where---this flea market, that furniture store---or who---this yard sale with S, that outing with missybrat. There are gifts and grab-bags, bargains and boondoggles.

Memories stream over me: teenage obsessions curdled into middle-aged eccentricity, family vacations, tokens of those who are gone for this lifetime---is that china figurine really the best representative of my sainted Aunt Mary? Will my dad come back and haunt me if I find a better home for his flotsam of tools in the garage? I haven't done any ceramics in at least five years---maybe I can get rid of some of the molds and bisque---not to mention some of the projects I made when I was into it! Peter's VHS tapes...next month will be ten years since he passed, and I haven't watched most of them!

And the worst, the really scary part---all the welter of books and notebooks and magazines and brochures and catalogues and paperwork. Oh, Christo. *holds head* Another permutation of "my story". Stories in the sense of books that sounded interesting and have been gathering dust since I dragged them home, stories that were boxed and closeted and now I can barely get at them to see what's there, and if I were a hardcore masochist, I'd keep track of how many notebooks are strewn around there---I'm betting at least 50!---with stories and fragments of stories and diaries that lapsed and excuse me while I hyperventilate.

How much of this can I part with? What part is a given item going to play in my future? How do I decide? How do I organize what's left? And oh god what possessed me to do this as summer is starting, given that I have no realiable A/C?!

Who am I without my stories, indeed.

Who---?

As I said yesterday, I'm entering into a great adventure, trying to winnow 35 years of clutter. And yet, there's more to it.

There's something I've been wrestling with for a while. Recently, AI gave a talk which asked the question, "Who would you be without your stories?" It dealt with the labels we've given ourselves and the amount of potential we have if we strip off those labels.

To me, it resonated on other levels. On a very primal level, as a writer who knows how futile pursuit of the Muse can sometimes be, it was terrifying. No stories? No charecters, no dialog, no plots? It's having my soul's scream echoing in a vast hollow wilderness. Thank goodness that's not the question, right?!

However, with the purge, it's very apropos---these things I need to get rid of carry pieces of my story. Sometimes it's the where---this flea market, that furniture store---or who---this yard sale with S, that outing with missybrat. There are gifts and grab-bags, bargains and boondoggles.

Memories stream over me: teenage obsessions curdled into middle-aged eccentricity, family vacations, tokens of those who are gone for this lifetime---is that china figurine really the best representative of my sainted Aunt Mary? Will my dad come back and haunt me if I find a better home for his flotsam of tools in the garage? I haven't done any ceramics in at least five years---maybe I can get rid of some of the molds and bisque---not to mention some of the projects I made when I was into it! Peter's VHS tapes...next month will be ten years since he passed, and I haven't watched most of them!

And the worst, the really scary part---all the welter of books and notebooks and magazines and brochures and catalogues and paperwork. Oh, Christo. *holds head* Another permutation of "my story". Stories in the sense of books that sounded interesting and have been gathering dust since I dragged them home, stories that were boxed and closeted and now I can barely get at them to see what's there, and if I were a hardcore masochist, I'd keep track of how many notebooks are strewn around there---I'm betting at least 50!---with stories and fragments of stories and diaries that lapsed and excuse me while I hyperventilate.

How much of this can I part with? What part is a given item going to play in my future? How do I decide? How do I organize what's left? And oh god what possessed me to do this as summer is starting, given that I have no realiable A/C?!

Who am I without my stories, indeed.