type type type

I guess I'm just going to burn up the keyboard going through this process. Diarrhea of the fingers; gross but accurate description of the urge to type. To purge. To release. First comes the urge for release and then, since the ice cream is gone, I head for bed, see the keyboard, and begin to type.

Two drawers emptied, and the realization that I am a collector of nothing and everything. A handful of marbles, a batch of baby safety pins attached to their mother, a stack of greeting cards, 2 old fashioned cap guns (lord I can't throw those away) and half a dozen small cosmetic bags each with their own collection of stuff. Foot care, nail care, sleeping aids, a couple for overnight necessities. Have you ever seen George Carlin's bit about a place to keep your stuff? I was channeling him tonight and laughing at myself in between huge sighs of frustration that I have so much STUFF!

It's everywhere, in every drawer, nook and cranny. And most of it is covered with dust because in our gloom and doom we have been neglecting and avoiding everything and anything that is in anyway even remotely related to taking care of ourselves and our home and our things. Well, okay, we do the dishes and our laundry, but not much else. That's the big D for you.

I haven't even started on the books; H has packed up 5 small boxes and tomorrow it's my turn to finish emptying bookcases. Oh to light a match and run away with Kaylee tucked safely under my arm. The cats will have to fend for themselves.

I keep telling myself I will only keep what's necessary, but the reality is that I will have to do this in stages. Throwing away what I can now and then sorting again to thin things out as I decide what to pack away for 'later'. NO. STOP. This is not a good plan. I need to sort as if there is no later, and only keep what makes me happy.  Only keep the clothes that fit and the books I know I will read again. The Annes, McCaffrey and Rice; J.K. Rowling of course; Katherine Kerr, Jean Auel and Robin Hobb.  Oh the days and hours their stories have captivated and rescued me in equal measure. If I had to pick one drug for the rest of my life it would be words. Reading them, writing them, listening to them. In fact I want to start re-reading all of my favorite stories right now and just avoid what needs to be done around here! Indeed, I am an escape artist of sorts.

But in all honesty I look forward to cleaning out the house and making a fresh start. I really do. Just writing about the clutter makes me itchy and anxious to get more done. As Oprah has said, one's home should rise up and greet them. I do try to keep the front of the house presentable, but all of this mucking about in corners with dust balls is a little unnerving and I want it to be done. I want the whole house to feel wonderful again. And the yard. And the garage.

Oh the joys of being tired and rambling.