Friday, March 16, 2012
I spent much of today clearing a room beneath my parents' house of my mountains of rubbish.
It feels like a bit of a time capsule, packed to the brim with materials for projects long past. With each relic I threw away it felt as if I was editing my own history, removing the stimulus for remembering. Breaking the ties between myself and those items and so ending their lives as vessels of potential.
I am a hoarder. Of objects and ideas. I feel that by possessing them alone I might share in some of their magic, but rarely peruse any to a degree which allows me to do this. I am haphazardly casting handfuls of seed, only occasionally tending any one long enough to allow it to germinate and grow.
I need the watering can of focus and the slow release fertiliser of determination. And possible the alluvial soils of a nap.