Behind the Ironic Column

And what does it cross over to?  Is it obsession or something else?  As you know, I’ve been sorting through files that probably “should” have been sorted out years ago.  But I’m banishing the word “should” from my vocabulary and I’m definitely not going to feel guilty about a box of papers (or even 10 or 20 boxes of papers).

 I’ve discovered that this activity is much easier on some days – i.e. when I feel cheery and the sun is out, etc.  There’s little point in even starting when it’s raining and gloomy out and I can feel the clouds pressing on my head.  Even on the good days, it’s surprising how quickly an ordinary piece of paper becomes something I need to hold on to.  Sometimes rationality wins the day – the argument being that the point of this exercise is to remove at least some of the paper and to leave it in better order for whoever has the pleasure of tossing it when I’m gone. 

The usual argument that the declutterers use is the one we all know – if you haven’t used it in x number of days, then you should discard it.  I already know that argument doesn’t work for me.  I have too many examples of my life taking a left turn and suddenly needing a piece of clothing or a tool that I haven’t touched in years.  Plus I’ve done historical research in one of my previous lives and I know how useful ordinary documentation can be in trying to nail down specifics of a time period.  But really, does that apply to stuff in my life?  I think it only matters to me – and maybe the problem is that I’m afraid I will forget about those events in my life if I don’t have something tangible to remind me. 

Memory is a sieve – sometime it keeps the big pieces and we lose the detail.  The thousands of little things that went on at the same time are filtered away.  Sometimes we lose everything.  Sometimes we don’t know there are memories until something jogs them – like Proust and his famous madeleines.  Perhaps that’s what I’m trying to deal with.  These pieces of paper are tangible proof of memories.  If I have a hotel receipt from a particular place and date, with what is unarguably my signature, then I really was there.  I didn’t dream it, or imagine it, or invent it for a story I was writing.  I remember that summer – I even vaguely remember being in that particular place now that I’ve seen the hotel receipt.  But if someone had asked me last week to recall what happened that particular July, I wouldn’t have remembered that weekend trip. 

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