Paperwork

Cutting losses, letting go. I fed to the shredder a stack of rejection letters for poems from 1989-1997 a couple of days ago. After logging when they'd been sent, to whom they'd been sent, what the response had been, etc. Other writers might have had a bonfire and called it done, but I had to record, archive, make one more note before disposing of the artifacts themselves. Typical. I seem to let go in stages. Unlike D, who I've watched cold turkey it with cigarettes, motorcycles, scraps of plastic, and even (upon occasion) people.

Tonight, he and I are cleaning up the garage, closets. We're reveling in tidying up the chaos. It's a Virgo thing.

About two hours ago, I found a box of some cards & letters I'd kept for years. I mean, these things (just a small percentage of my excess paperwork) dated as far back as 1979 or so. Many of them seem to have been important to me to keep because they reminded me of missed potential, of things I should have done, connections I should have made. It's like a friggin' Box Of Guilt, for goodness' sake. Very healthy. Cards and letters from people saying wildly generous, loving, kind, flattering things about me and how important my friendship is to them, and I hardly remember caring about them at all. I must have done a good job *acting* like a good friend for these people without ever *feeling* like one.

I've gone through much of my life careful not to establish any real emotional connection with anyone, for fear that it would either bite me in the end, or cause grief to those around me, who as a result of my happy relationship missed out on some connection of their own. It's a long story, but at least I'm aware of it now. As are you, whether you wanted to be or not.

So I'm getting rid of much (but not all) of the correspondence in this particular box. Rest assured that if you're reading this, I didn't throw away your letters. I did, however toss cards I got for my 16th birthday, congratulations on my college graduation from friends of my grandmother. There are even love letters I'd forgotten I'd received from someone I spoke to maybe twice, in 1987. I don't even remember how I met him or where, (I hardly remembered his name), but apparently, our meeting prompted long emotional missives stating that he hoped I'd always be part of his life, even if as only a friend.

How soon they forget.

I mean, apparently, I also had a pen-pal in Goteborg, Sweden. Do I remember this? Not in the slightest. Yet, I have these letters here, in slightly amusing English. She wrote me at least three times, thanking me for my letters and answering questions I'd apparently asked. This was in 1979. I mean, I have never done drugs, but even if I did, I should have still had a pretty sharp mind in 1979, don't you think?

So what else have I forgotten? I used to be able to label the parts of the heart. I'm sure of that. And I think I used to be able to write pi to the 4th or 5th place. But the tricky thing about this sort of memory loss is that you can't be at all sure of what's missing. It's not like there's a blank place in my brain the shape of Annelie Olsson in Goteborg. What else is gone? Have I ever spoken formally at the White House? Was I, in fact, once an exotic dancer in Newark, NJ? I don't think so, but you can't be too sure. Maybe I did once complete a paint-by-number picture of Citation the racehorse. Perhaps I have driven a Peterbilt truck and just don't recall.

Maybe these things are only temporarily gone, though. Maybe they're what I will re-live during the long solitary confinement hours of my prison stay (when I'm convicted for crimes I've forgotten I committed). Or maybe they'll be the stories I tell my great-grandchildren when they visit me in the Home.

For all the things I once knew and have forgotten, though, there are some things that I never learned at all until now. Those are the lessons I hope stick.