One Chick's Junk May Just Be... Well, Junk.

But mine will always be treasure, to me.

I find the things we choose to hold onto rather interesting. Like, not figuratively hold on to. I mean literally. As in letters or pictures and such. I dug out this old, black, no-longer-able-to-be-zipped portfolio in which I keep a bulging amount of crap, to find an image of an old friend from high school. Not sure what my criteria was/is for hanging on to all of it. I mean, what's in that awkward pouch is just a mass of selected randomness spanning over 15+ years. How it all made the cut and why I have been carrying it with me across country and back, is beyond me.

I know you're wondering what's in there. Ok, maybe you're not. Quite honestly none of it is very interesting. It all means something to me for sure, but it really is just random crap. There's some (really bad) poetry from HS and college, and pictures and cards… and letters. I have hand-written letters. They're from my ex-boyfriend, senior year, in high school. When we graduated, he went into the Marines, I went to art school, we called it quits a month into the semester. He wrote to me during his whole experience in boot camp, even long after we had broken things off. I have a lot of his first "expert" medals he earned, too. I cherish all of it very much. Once when I was living in Atlanta, I was at the The Pub reading (because you all now know that's what I do) and ended up in a long conversation with a veteran. He suggested I donate the letters and medals to this particular museum that features such things from the Gulf War. That "they should be contributed as a part of history and show a side to war that some just don't get to see", he said. But I just can't do it. They're so personal. And I was honored he chose me to be the one to listen to his struggles with boot camp. To see him through the worst days of his life. It was often heartbreaking, but strangely beautiful to read. Letter-writing is such a beautiful, and lost art. Sometimes when I'm awake in the middle of the night, I type letters to someone. It's not the same, I realize, but I don't have any intention on ever sending these. 

Two other things struck me as I was digging through. Both are pieces of writing. One is sad and story-ish. The other a playful, rhyme-y sing-songy poem. Both are a little cheesy, the sad one a little dramatic, but that's to be expected from a late-blooming 20-something-year-old. The story actually made me cry when I read it. Isn't that funny? After all these years. It's a bit silly and predictable, but it's about a relationship I had in my senior year of college that continued on and off afterward… and was the reason I moved to Denver in 1995. It's actually more about realizing it wasn't a good fit after all was said and done. Which has always made me sad. A bit tumultuous the relationship was at times, but more often than not, it was pretty amazing. It's a shame that never worked out. Some things just aren't meant to be I suppose. The piece is called My Train. And it's about a journey.

The other thing I mentioned, the sing-songy poem, is a little clumsy but I think it's fun. And totally still relevant. I'm going to share it with you, but you cannot make fun of it. I was quite a little free-spirited dreamer back then. Shit. Who am I kidding. Still am. So it is a little silly… was meant to be playful, not win a Pulitzer. *wink*

I don't want to grow up.

or

Down for that matter.

I want to be free and

Play games —

MARRY the Mad Hatter!

I wanna pick wild flowers

and eat them at will.

Not Geritol or Vitamin B

or any old man pill.

Nope.

Not I, or me,

not even myself.

I don't want to grow old

and sit on my shelf

with the other old toys

no longer alive.

It's the leaves and the playgrounds

I want to revive —

Jump in the piles,

Swing from a tree.

Build huge blanket forts

(the Queen I would be!)

I want to chase butterflies,

make wreaths for my hair.

From daisies + dandelions, grass

I don't care!

The world is so colorful through
the eyes of a child.

The air is much cleaner, the heart

is so wild.

Maybe I'll move to the land of lost boys.

Or build me a fix-it shop in the land

of unwanted toys.

It seems such a better place to be.

You and I, myself and me.

Maybe I'll grow up —

or

Down for that matter.

But I'll STILL be free

to play games AND

marry the Mad Hatter.

Because the air is still clean,

My heart is still wild.

The world is so colorful

Through the eyes 

of a child.

So, why on earth did I choose these particular things to save? Well, why does anybody? Anything from my Mom and Dad I save, like cards. I love the stuff my mom writes in cards. I save all of them. And I have a few things from my Dad… he doesn't write more than a sentence when he mails a package or signs a card. I keep them anyway, because he has such lovely handwriting, and because he uses the word "Luv" instead of "love". And I kinda really luv that. I actually have a 10x10 Smartbox unit in Atlanta with some furniture, all of my photographs, and a very large box of more random crap. When I finally get it moved up here, it's going to be like Christmas.