Last Updated On December 9, 2019

 

We sat around the pile We sat and laughed We sat and laughed and Waved it into the air! And we did it just like that -Jane's Addiction

 

 

Among layers of thin dress shirt boxes and tissue paper were nestled two decades worth of tree ornaments in a lid-less tub on the basement floor. A reckless home. This year our ornaments arrived heavy, stinking of mold, every strata unveiling more desecration until striking pure holiday sludge at the bottom half.

The whole box
A coffin
Sloshy disintegration within

We don’t have a lot of fragile things in terms of glass or crystal but many are fragile in construction. Things created in the hands of children, photos taken in preschool classes, figures with glued on beads and painted elbow pasta, tiny cross-stitch patterns. These things only survive by intentional acts of preservation.

Matted hair of angels
Inky clumps of tinsel
A disarticulated cabin now popsicle sticks

Instead of a whirl-wind frenzy of cookie fueled decorating, we had a funerary sifting, cleansing, and mending. My hands clumsy and stiff. My mind helpfully dissociating from what I was seeing. Ultimately we managed to salvage about a quarter of our more hardy specimens but the rest had to be disposed of, some as debris caught in the strainer of the kitchen sink as I poured the remaining standing liquid down.

Disembodied remains
Amid fluid
More questionable with depth

We spread out what we had and assembled a paper chain whose parts were surprisingly spared, and lights.

Because light will fix anything.

While in triage mode, I wiped ceramic balls only to realize I cleaned off the words my dead friend had written on them with sharpie. Irretrievable. I’d love to say that I remember those words. I would love to document them here but I can’t. I don’t remember. Those words went to wherever she is.

Photos revert
To undeveloped words
Become unwritten

I wanted to offer expressions of reassurance to my family, a positive twist, a promise of future reparation…but I couldn’t. Maybe because I sensed that this was just a whisker of a larger issue or that I hadn’t derived the meaning that I absolutely require of incidents like this. Allow me to take this whole thing personally, as is my custom.

This feels familiar. The letting go of things. I have a history of jewelry I forget to put away properly or worn at inappropriate times, a history of dishes I use in the microwave or put through the dish washer even though I know I am flirting with destruction, a history of walking past things that I know are in the path of getting tipped over or stepped on and yet not intervening, a history of out of sight out of mind even when I see it every day. And this is the stuff I care about.

I would love to breezily be like- I don’t care about material things, I’m a minimalist now. But the rub is that I actually love material things*, I just happen to be a terrible guardian of them. And I don’t know what thats about. How I let things slide right between my fingers, not purposefully but also not un-purposefully. How I am always seeking lightness, but in careless immature ways.

All I can impart about those sharpie-d words is that, even as I am writing this, the written word is fleeting, weak, and inadequate. They cannot and should not be encapsulated, held inviolate. And maybe this is true of many things. Maybe essences should be more kept and held as much as they can be without reliance on fickle material objects.

I’m wondering if this is who I am meant to be. A woman without worldly attachments, focused on essence and experience and relationship.

Everyone should take anything of value from my possession now.
Before I leave it out in the snow or let the dog chew it.

This year, I am taking Christmas to the cabin and the coast**. I’ll conjure another tree made of downed boughs from the maritime forest and sea glass from the beach and lights from the fire. And there it will stay, even after I leave, without need of my keeping.

*
I want to construct altars
Made of all the precious things
To honor the beloved
To mirror my insides

**
Near the water
But dreaming
Of fire
And seeking definition

 

Last Updated On December 9, 2019

 

We sat around the pile We sat and laughed We sat and laughed and Waved it into the air! And we did it just like that -Jane's Addiction

 

Among layers of thin dress shirt boxes and tissue paper were nestled two decades worth of tree ornaments in a lid-less tub on the basement floor. A reckless home. This year our ornaments arrived heavy, stinking of mold, every strata unveiling more desecration until striking pure holiday sludge at the bottom half.

The whole box
A coffin
Sloshy disintegration within

We don’t have a lot of fragile things in terms of glass or crystal but many are fragile in construction. Things created in the hands of children, photos taken in preschool classes, figures with glued on beads and painted elbow pasta, tiny cross-stitch patterns. These things only survive by intentional acts of preservation.

Matted hair of angels
Inky clumps of tinsel
A disarticulated cabin now popsicle sticks

Instead of a whirl-wind frenzy of cookie fueled decorating, we had a funerary sifting, cleansing, and mending. My hands clumsy and stiff. My mind helpfully dissociating from what I was seeing. Ultimately we managed to salvage about a quarter of our more hardy specimens but the rest had to be disposed of, some as debris caught in the strainer of the kitchen sink as I poured the remaining standing liquid down.

Disembodied remains
Amid fluid
More questionable with depth

We spread out what we had and assembled a paper chain whose parts were surprisingly spared, and lights.

Because light will fix anything.

While in triage mode, I wiped ceramic balls only to realize I cleaned off the words my dead friend had written on them with sharpie. Irretrievable. I’d love to say that I remember those words. I would love to document them here but I can’t. I don’t remember. Those words went to wherever she is.

Photos revert
To undeveloped words
Become unwritten

I wanted to offer expressions of reassurance to my family, a positive twist, a promise of future reparation…but I couldn’t. Maybe because I sensed that this was just a whisker of a larger issue or that I hadn’t derived the meaning that I absolutely require of incidents like this. Allow me to take this whole thing personally, as is my custom.

This feels familiar. The letting go of things. I have a history of jewelry I forget to put away properly or worn at inappropriate times, a history of dishes I use in the microwave or put through the dish washer even though I know I am flirting with destruction, a history of walking past things that I know are in the path of getting tipped over or stepped on and yet not intervening, a history of out of sight out of mind even when I see it every day. And this is the stuff I care about.

I would love to breezily be like- I don’t care about material things, I’m a minimalist now. But the rub is that I actually love material things*, I just happen to be a terrible guardian of them. And I don’t know what thats about. How I let things slide right between my fingers, not purposefully but also not un-purposefully. How I am always seeking lightness, but in careless immature ways.

All I can impart about those sharpie-d words is that, even as I am writing this, the written word is fleeting, weak, and inadequate. They cannot and should not be encapsulated, held inviolate. And maybe this is true of many things. Maybe essences should be more kept and held as much as they can be without reliance on fickle material objects.

I’m wondering if this is who I am meant to be. A woman without worldly attachments, focused on essence and experience and relationship.

Everyone should take anything of value from my possession now.
Before I leave it out in the snow or let the dog chew it.

This year, I am taking Christmas to the cabin and the coast**. I’ll conjure another tree made of downed boughs from the maritime forest and sea glass from the beach and lights from the fire. And there it will stay, even after I leave, without need of my keeping.

*
I want to construct altars
Made of all the precious things
To honor the beloved
To mirror my insides

**
Near the water
But dreaming
Of fire
And seeking definition

Last Updated On December 9, 2019

We sat around the pile We sat and laughed We sat and laughed and Waved it into the air! And we did it just like that -Jane's Addiction

Among layers of thin dress shirt boxes and tissue paper were nestled two decades worth of tree ornaments in a lid-less tub on the basement floor. A reckless home. This year our ornaments arrived heavy, stinking of mold, every strata unveiling more desecration until striking pure holiday sludge at the bottom half.

The whole box
A coffin
Sloshy disintegration within

We don’t have a lot of fragile things in terms of glass or crystal but many are fragile in construction. Things created in the hands of children, photos taken in preschool classes, figures with glued on beads and painted elbow pasta, tiny cross-stitch patterns. These things only survive by intentional acts of preservation.

Matted hair of angels
Inky clumps of tinsel
A disarticulated cabin now popsicle sticks

Instead of a whirl-wind frenzy of cookie fueled decorating, we had a funerary sifting, cleansing, and mending. My hands clumsy and stiff. My mind helpfully dissociating from what I was seeing. Ultimately we managed to salvage about a quarter of our more hardy specimens but the rest had to be disposed of, some as debris caught in the strainer of the kitchen sink as I poured the remaining standing liquid down.

Disembodied remains
Amid fluid
More questionable with depth

We spread out what we had and assembled a paper chain whose parts were surprisingly spared, and lights.

Because light will fix anything.

While in triage mode, I wiped ceramic balls only to realize I cleaned off the words my dead friend had written on them with sharpie. Irretrievable. I’d love to say that I remember those words. I would love to document them here but I can’t. I don’t remember. Those words went to wherever she is.

Photos revert
To undeveloped words
Become unwritten

I wanted to offer expressions of reassurance to my family, a positive twist, a promise of future reparation…but I couldn’t. Maybe because I sensed that this was just a whisker of a larger issue or that I hadn’t derived the meaning that I absolutely require of incidents like this. Allow me to take this whole thing personally, as is my custom.

This feels familiar. The letting go of things. I have a history of jewelry I forget to put away properly or worn at inappropriate times, a history of dishes I use in the microwave or put through the dish washer even though I know I am flirting with destruction, a history of walking past things that I know are in the path of getting tipped over or stepped on and yet not intervening, a history of out of sight out of mind even when I see it every day. And this is the stuff I care about.

I would love to breezily be like- I don’t care about material things, I’m a minimalist now. But the rub is that I actually love material things*, I just happen to be a terrible guardian of them. And I don’t know what thats about. How I let things slide right between my fingers, not purposefully but also not un-purposefully. How I am always seeking lightness, but in careless immature ways.

All I can impart about those sharpie-d words is that, even as I am writing this, the written word is fleeting, weak, and inadequate. They cannot and should not be encapsulated, held inviolate. And maybe this is true of many things. Maybe essences should be more kept and held as much as they can be without reliance on fickle material objects.

I’m wondering if this is who I am meant to be. A woman without worldly attachments, focused on essence and experience and relationship.

Everyone should take anything of value from my possession now.
Before I leave it out in the snow or let the dog chew it.

This year, I am taking Christmas to the cabin and the coast**. I’ll conjure another tree made of downed boughs from the maritime forest and sea glass from the beach and lights from the fire. And there it will stay, even after I leave, without need of my keeping.

*
I want to construct altars
Made of all the precious things
To honor the beloved
To mirror my insides

**
Near the water
But dreaming
Of fire
And seeking definition