Memoirs of a ...

I have spent the last 24 hours sorting all of the things I have in storage at my Mom's place. Things I want to keep, things I want to ship to Oz, and everything else. It isn't the clothes, or worn stuffed toys that are making the process difficult for me. It is the pictures and old letters that I have to wade through holding my emotions as if holding my nose from a potent smell. In boxes of pictures I found old letters from boyfriends, poems I wrote when my Dad died, and ticket stubs going back as far as 1997. There are short stories from 5th grade and far too many pictures of past relationships. In my defense there weren't that many guys, I am just a picture fiend. I have cataloged my travels with my camera, but they have ended up in two photo boxes of mixed and mass piles. I found letters from my pen that were never sent, more for my benefit then someone else's.

The process is also slow because I am sorting alone. I want to go through the pictures and relate the stories to Levi, but over the phone it's pointless. There are distractions and its like teaching yoga over the phone, it doesn't come out quite right. I suppose my rambling is intended to say I am feeling alone. The nostalgia of this process takes me back to times when I have been alone, overwhelmed, happy, and confused. With the geographic separation in my current relationship I am relating to the times when I was alone, doing things solely.

There is no point to this ramble and I am not an unhappy person, I think this is a milestone or something important that I must do as I age - it's just filling my brain and that is spilling on to the keys.