Double Trouble

I really didn't know I had a problem. The Hub has long been wary of my interest in the camera. And not in a Marilyn Monroe loving-the-lens sort of way. It's my obsession with recording every minute of our lives that has baffled him. On our first weekend away in Venice there are not many pictures of him -- he chose to not feed my addiction and hid from the camera. Now he finally plays along -- just grins -- or at least bears it.

But I didn't realize how bad it really was. Not until the boxes arrived from my parents' house two weeks ago. Not only did they contain 15 photo albums, but boxes and boxes of the negatives, doubles (remember doubles?) and rejects from the albums. Not to mention the albums and the pretty large basket of rejects that I already had over here.

I have started sifting through them and it was fun at first, trying to decide which bad memories or ex-boyfriends to discard from my collection in a bit of revisionist history. And then the sheer number of photos became terribly overwhelming. You would think I had lived in New York City for 30 years instead of 3. And that college lasted a decade. And most of the pictures of that time in my life are of the inside of bars. Friends with arms around each other, doing shots, looking happy, albeit a little drunk. I think my roommate and I must have taken pictures of every single night out we ever had. And at least a roll of film each time. There was even a series of photos of said roommate giving me my birthday gifts one year. These were exciting times.

Part of this I suppose was youth -- believing that all I experienced at that age was terribly important and I had to record every second of it. Also, I really valued my friendships and those fun times we were having (I still do, in fact). Which is all good stuff.

But why the boxes and boxes of extras and rejects and negatives? Just in case someone broke into our East Side apartment and stole my treasured photo album collection? So I could recreate it all?

The thing that I am finding particularly interesting about this whole process of de-cluttering (click here for an overview of what I am up to) is what I am learning about myself. On one level I am absolutely horrified of my degree of hoarding on the photography front, but on another I am touched about how much I have wanted to record the good things in my life so far.

I have decided to categorize the photos first before I even attempt to decide what to keep and what to get rid of (even though I already have a shoebox of definite rejects). It is just too overwhelming otherwise. It will be interesting to see how many of these photos I end up keeping -- how many do you actually need to remember the happy memories? And how much of it is just hoarding?

Related Posts:

• Let's Keep Our Mind On The Prize
• A Picture Worth A Thousand Words

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Early Writings: Dear Diary

The annoying thing about writing is that you have to have something to say. 

Of course it helps to be able to have honed the skill of prose (and I'm not saying I have yet), because you can't get very far without that. But even though beautiful prose is a joy, I don't think it's what compels us to keep reading. It's the message, isn't it? You might say that it's also the story, but then again, aren't stories just messages about life, told in an entertaining, compelling manner?  

I've been pondering my own objectives as a wannabe writer as I make my way through the childhood boxes my parents sent over, as they contain 13 diaries, as well as a lot of my early writing attempts (just wait until you hear about the start of a novel called Thunder Under The Sun). But first, let's talk about my diaries. The first one, which I've already made my way through, was not long, but is equal parts funny and painful to read. Apart from the sheer cringe factor, it's incredibly difficult to observe the way in which I viewed our baffling world. Everything is black and white, and there's a sharpness in my environment that I couldn't quite understand due to, well, being a child (I'm almost eight in the first set of entries). But I suppose that's what also makes the entries funny. 

For example, I remembered when reading through the entries that it was at that age that my Mom had to be at work earlier than my Dad, so he used to get me ready to go to school. But there must have been mornings he couldn't, and it seems I went over to our neighbor's house on those days. It emerges that I have taken a real disliking to this arrangement. Why? My indignance at my friend's mom's insistence that I blow my nose (I will keep my grammar and spelling true to the diaries -- there's no messing with perfection): 

"I was unsure I wanted to go. We had brefast I tried not to exspress my feelings and I'm good at it but I had not wanted to go. So I went. Almost every munit she'd ask me to blow my nose I felt like she didn't like me. I was glad I left to go to school."

I'm sure our neighbor was glad when I left too -- who wants a snotty kid hanging around? And what a little stoic, good at not expressing my feelings. I feel like that might have been a tiny exaggeration on my side. 

Another interesting point from -- let's call it -- Volume 1, is the fact that my difficulties with mornings began at an early age. Most entries seem to begin with this irritating waking-up stuff. Even when friends were sleeping over:

"Heidi was sleeping over a I woke up when my mother woke me up. I was not awake Heidi and I where fast a sleep." 

I was a very tired girl, it would seem:

"today my mother woke me up (and I still feel tirad)"

Also, apparently I was interested in financial services from an early age:

"and then my father took me to the bank and the lumber yard and the amp [American supermarket chain A&P]. then we went home and I had ravioli and apple sauce and bread. then my father took me to his work. So I took along pick up sticks and a car and a ballet doll so I had fun exploring [large American financial institution] and Linc showed me how to put a tape in a computer."

It was the 1980s. Seems like work with Dad was much more fun than with Mom though. One entry ends with: 

"That night we went to a boring meeting." 

Clearly not as good as earlier in the day when I was making cookies, rollerskating and playing with dolles [sic] with a friend.

I'm pretty sure I didn't have much to say in my early journaling -- not that my lunch wasn't incredibly interesting -- but at least I was starting to exercise the observational muscle. 

Stay tuned, as I plan to keep exploring writing through the perspective of my early attempts at it. If I can stand continuing to read my "work". As I said before, the cringe factor is a strong one -- I may end up being pretty selective with what I reveal, as you can only imagine.

Related Posts:

• Mornings Sorted, Well, Sort Of
• Let's Keep Our Mind On The Prize

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Let's Keep Our Mind On The Prize

I've taken a bit of a breather from the life-changing clear out process. We had friends coming to stay and then an out-of-town family party. And I was feeling smug about my progress -- as I've finished everything apart from the sentimental items. (Oh, that small category.) I think that setting aside a corner of the attic for all these things fooled my brain into thinking that I was "done". Out of sight, out of mind.

And then the boxes arrived. 

My parents are selling their house and decided they would be returning to me (and my brother) all the random things we were storing there. Even though I live in another country. I suppose the excuse that I might come back soon is losing its teeth as the years tick by and I am still in London.

A few months ago, Mom and I spent nearly a whole weekend on Skype, whittling down the 11 boxes that were sitting in their basement. Already not an easy process, I felt quite proud that I was able to get rid of lots of things that way. But after all of that, as well as some culling I delegated to her, there remained three very large boxes that she packaged up and sent over (using Excess Baggage - she told me to give them a plug in the blog as they were very good!).

You have to love the inventory she typed up for customs. A few choice examples:

• 1 bean bag doll
• 13 childhood diaries
• 4 shoeboxes of personal letters 
• Journalism award plaque
• Tooth fairy pillow

The total estimated replacement cost (for insurance purposes) of my childhood: £378.27

I unpacked everything and suddenly the corner of the attic reserved for sentimental items grew.

Here it is before:

And after:

I may have to just quit my job. Don't tell the Hub. If I want to get this sorting and clearing done in my allocated six months of the life-changing clear out, I do have my work cut out for me. An itemized list of your childhood items (including 15 photo albums) is where the rubber really hits the road.

My parents did agree to keep my dollhouse though. Which was a relief. Not sure what the Hub would have done if that had arrived at our flat.

Related Posts:

• What If I Need It?
• The Closet, The Drawers And The Wardrobe

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