Dear SRS, Enclosed is a letter I wrote to Carrie V; the last one I will ever write to her. I’m tired of feeling bad that she hasn’t responded to me in ten years, but then again, she has always been the center of her universe, so why would I ever think she would write? Anyway, I would like you to read it and then send it away maybe in a balloon or down a river, whatever you decide is okay by me. Maybe you don’t know this about me, but when I am done with someone I am really done. There is no turning back. Maybe it’s my Sicilian blood. We don’t like to be wronged. So, Carrie V is out of my life, my dreams and my thoughts as soon as you take care of it for me. I will have more things to dispose of in the future, but this is it for now. Thanks for your services.

A year ago I came across a duck struggling in the middle of a busy street. It had been hit by a car. Eventually, with the help of a friend, I placed the duck in a box and drove it to the Audubon Society. After examining the duck and assuring me they would work on getting it healthy again, the vets gave me this card. They said if I wanted to, I could call every day to see how duck (191 – lesser scaup) was doing. The next day I called and the duck’s health had improved slightly. I called the day after and the duck had stood to eat. I assumed the duck had been saved, so I didn’t call the next day, and instead I went on a little trip to Seattle to see my sister. At dinner, someone ordered an appetizer that happened to consist of roasted duck. Knowing duck 191 was still healing, I took no more than one bite.  The next day I called and was told that duck 191 had died in the night. Though it was subtle, I was convinced, and still am a bit, that the one bite of duck I took that night led to the death of duck 191. I often feel responsible for things that are out of my control. I’d like to give my guilty conscience a rest.

The same Christmas that I got a Tiny Tears doll, my younger sister, Nancy, got a Baby Burpie. My doll cried and wet her pants, requiring a diaper change, and Nancy’s doll burped after being patted six times on the back. Not fair. Burping was a much more desirable character trait. Despite her shortcomings, Tiny Tears and I were inseparable for several years. Her pink and white dress disappeared long ago. Her little arm has been raised and lowered so many times that the crying mechanism ceased to work. Her shiny synthetic hair has been mostly rubbed off, leaving a strange topknot. There’s a sad little rattle inside her. Clearly, something is broken. Her heart? It’s time for me to let go of this little person because she represents my childhood. I need to grow up. I’ll have a more peaceful life without her face beseeching me: “Why are you putting me in this box again, and not taking me out with you?”

I don’t know where the croquette balls came from. I had some grand vision of drilling into them and hanging them from the wall, but I didn’t get around to that, so I stuck them on top of a wooden tea candle my mother gave us and we never used, but (surprise surprise) we held onto it, I seemingly more than he. I thought I’d make the most of it, put it in the window – it’s colorful and fun, though I could never fully close the blinds. And then to call it art! It’s one thing to be resourceful and another to justify avoiding. Why do I want to hold onto things and inconvenient gifts from a past life I don’t even remember getting? You know, I just had a thought, is it possible that the modern epidemic of hoarding is the outlet for our genetic/instinctual tendency to gather – which is stifled in these crazy times? So why try to gussy up a burden, there’s an art to releasing too.

Paper Weight

“Some are very busy, and yet do nothing.” – Thomas Fuller

All these hours, all this thinking, pondering, writing plan after plan, “improving” myself… all filler for nothing. The trap of thought… all my energy remains in a frozen state, never solidifying into action. Right now I don’t even know what’s in the bag, only the two papers in the front pocket ( I thought you’d appreciate it – was a memory exercise I did when we were in Thailand).

I need to release the weight of my thoughts, so they can actually manifest. And that scares the shit out of me – stepping out of my own jail cell… I wonder if I have the strength to do it. Is this the kind of thing that I can fake until I make it, or will I be crushed if I’m not strong enough?

I suppose I’ll only ever know when I take the weight myself and become an atlas in my own right, carrying my own world – but not in the same lonely way… my energy reserves come from the great love of true companions that make my world beautiful and sustainable.

A vivid high school memory of a phone call I received at a friend’s house repeats itself in my mind often.  “Jamie, I need you to be strong, Jocey was killed (murdered).”  As I rush home to tell my parents, my 10 minute drive feels like an eternity.

It was my first life altering experience and now I’m ready to get rid of the rose I saved from the funeral and the explicit news paper clipping describing the night.

Here’s to Jocey and ridding myself of the negative connotations these objects bring me.

Thank you for offering to take this emotional baggage off my back/soul. (Sorry, it’s a little smelly.) I’m so sick of looking at my dog’s toy, tigger, because it reminds me of one of the worst years of my life – Sept. 08 – June 09. After selling my home and traveling with my husband, we used my parent’s house as a “base of operations” from which we traveled some more and volunteered locally from my parent’s house. What loving parents they are – from a distance, but living in their uber-conservative nest was an emotional nightmare. I had differentiated from them when I was 17-and that was 17 years ago. My husband was living with his inlaws and my dog tore into their stuffed tigger. The three of us felt trapped, but we were homeless otherwise, unemployed, and seeking our path. Thank god for Washington DC where we reside currently. Don’t get me wrong – it was fabulous living rent-free, but the emotional turmoil (emotional suicide-really) nearly caused me to go insane. The more my dog tore the stuffing out of her tigger, the heavier I felt being there. I felt like a snail too ashamed and miserable to come out of my shell. Somehow, even after moving out of their house, tigger still haunted me. Association, I’m sure. I’m sorry to take this de-stuffed toy from my dog, but it’s the last remaining item in my life that represents my hell year. I want to feel 100% free of my experience – no sticky tendrils trying to keep me enslaved. I’m in one of the most incredible cities in the world, and I don’t need a glance at tigger to ruin my day. My dog will understand, she’s sensitive too.

My gay friend Mark and I were close friends after we met, working at the same grocery store. We shared loving words back and forth for 3 years, keeping this little notebook in one of our apron’s pockets. That was almost 8 years ago and we’re not really friends anymore, I guess. I began treating him poorly when I became jealous of the time he spent with my girlfriend. I was jealous and mean. It kills me now because I am in such a different head space, and fully regret my actions back then. I would love to be friends with him again, but moved 3000 miles away and I don’t know if I’m forgiven for being so awful. Every time I see this notebook, I’m reminded of how mean and jealous I was. Forgive me Mark. I still love you.

“Tote”al Beauty Bag

Hand me down makeup and old sponges, beauty supplies, dusty, their liquid contents having separated at times, shaken back together and separated once again. These aren’t what make me beautiful and removing them won’t leave me ugly. That’s a bit of a dramatic statement, really I need to release this need for outside validation of my beauty. Good hygiene, and vein grooming, are one thing, but the collection of things that might make me more attractive is something else all-together. Tools are to help achieve an inner, pre-described goal – collecting tools without a goal only clutters – like heavy blue eyeshadow – over shadowing the foundation beneath. There is one cosmetic item that I’ve kept all this time from sentiment; the loose eye dust in champagne located inside the zipper pocket is something I bought in NYC on my first trip to visit my friend Karen. I have never found a color I like so much and so I haven’t used it for years because I thought I might run out and never be able to use it again. Now I look at it and won’t use it because who knows what it might do to my eye if its gone bad (they say cosmetics expire). I sigh right now thinking of it as representing missed opportunities, how many invitations I’ve let expire… and that regret will only clutter my energy, so out it goes.

Finally there’s the box full of jewelry, which all relate in one way or the other but I will not discuss. An old friend gave me this. At first it was a weed box for me (once it had an inner divider with six little boxes) but I never did put any weed in it. Really it’s never been full, always an empty box that looks pretty on the outside. Once I used it as a travel jewelry case, but the clasp doesn’t hold and I had to put a rubber band around it. I cleaned it regularly and put it back on the shelf- out of sight. Wow, looking back at the last paragraph I am struck with emotion. All this time I quietly carry this fear that I am an empty box, pretty on the outside, and even though I keep it out of sight, and have not been able to successfully integrate it as something useful, instead of releasing it, I periodically refresh it and put it back. it makes me feel sad to be releasing a part of myself, even though it’s a part I obviously don’t need, and to a great deal that I’m tired of carrying.

I also need to release the thought of beauty being a win-lose situation and that the most/best tools win.

Please accept these dreadlocks from me. It took me three years to grow them and after I cut them off. I have been hanging onto them and they have been keeping me attached to the confusion and insecurities I felt when I was younger.