. . . in the archives of the heart . . . the fallibility of memory . . .

This morning I arrived here, back on the lake, my latest eight day house/pet sitting gig. I live now – essentially – out of my SUV, and this is one of the seven locations for which my laptop remembers the wi-fi codes and sign-on keys. I’m eager to curl on the couch and start reading some of the 32 physical books I’ve brought along (there are 6 more on my KindleFire) but I promised myself that I would blog every day.

So, here I am. Blogging.

It is a dangerous thing for me to write when this mood I am in is the mood I am in.  Some alignment of stars, events, conversations, dreams has occurred which serves to hurtle me into the archives of my heart, a cavernous, confusing, twisting and turning of a place in which everything that happens today sends me spiraling back into the past. I retreat to this cocoon because reality pushes too many buttons; I am, in fact, all buttons.

I write this while wearing a t-shirt emblazoned with the phrase, “Jerry Likes My Corn”. It is one of the many souvenirs of the musical Grey Gardens I collected during my obsessive visiting and re-visiting of that show. That show which pushed all my dear, dead Aunt Sissie buttons. I missed her (still do miss her, still haven’t even slightly recovered from her loss) and the show somehow gave part of her back to me each time I saw it.

Musicals did that for me. Once upon a time.

Last night I saw – for the first time – The Book of Mormon. I liked it very much, I did. Really. However, buttons. Pushed. Being in the audience of a musical, that thing that used to drive so much of my life, that thing at which I felt rather accomplished in a small-town way on a small-scale level, and now, no longer do. I was overcome with the “no longer” and it was vibrating out of me. Vibrating enough that my dear companion said, “You were terribly unhappy before, lost, my Charles no longer existed you had been so beaten down. I have you back now.”

I don’t know. I don’t feel “back” – I don’t feel much of anything at all except numb. The disconnect between the fusty, faded aura around me and the imaginings of hedonistic, exotic globe-trotting literati in my head – somewhat un-bridge-able.

So, I wear my souvenirs – the ones I have kept. When last I moved – another in a series of “get out quick dammit” sort of evictions from people’s lives – I discarded much of what I had kept over the years. So many t-shirts and hats and such, given or thrown away. But, I kept Grey Gardens. I suppose it says something about me that what moves me most are stories of dessication and desuetude, and I suppose it says more about me that my texts now – to the even fewer people I have left (yes, another one seems to have bitten the dust of inability to deal with who I am) are about the pointless ordeal and life-sucking vacuity of soldiering on.

I am fucking exhausted. Well, I am exhausted. And the fallibility of memory is such that, even this stroll through the archives of the heart leaves me wondering, “Did this really happen? And is THIS really where I was meant to end up?”

Such a fail. My use by date is surely near. Or, perhaps, passed.

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