Take one of the shirts, for example. It was the shirt I was
wearing at an actors’ party one night when a vision of loveliness came over
and introduced herself with the words ‘Hi, I’m S. I was asking one of the
actors who the guy in the check shirt is.’ It was the start of an adventure replete
with drama and high emotion. It’s a special memory.
And then there was the desk light. It was a good one, an
expensive one, and it illuminated my desk and computer keyboard through many
years of writing fiction late into the night, fortified by countless scotches
and the sense of fulfilment that comes with creative endeavour. One of the
pleasures of writing fiction is that it takes you into endless other worlds
where there’s more adventure to be had, not to mention the thrill of having it
accepted for publication. So that’s another special memory, and another Thing
indelibly connected with it.
I realise that in the greater scheme of things memories are
ultimately worthless – I’ve said so often enough – but they’re still friends of
sorts, precious friends, and casting their ghosts among the broken rejects of
anonymous strangers just doesn’t feel right somehow. It feels disrespectful.
2 comments:
I know,it's hard to see shards of your life tossed on a pile. I've regretted throwing certain items out before but it's good to clear and make space. I like burning or burying things but it's not always appropriate.
Some people seem to find it very easy to throw things away. My ex, the other Mel, is almost obsessed with it. But then, she finds it necessary to constantly re-invent herself. That's why she isn't Helen any more.
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