When the archaeological dig is of your own stuff. (a memoir)

As I considered the ivy growing into my study

As I swept the floor under my easy chair

As the historian and I moved the easy chair downstairs, so that I could clean under and around it and maybe get a slightly sleeker chair

As I threw away a dozen old copies of the New York Times Style Magazine

As I rolled up an old rug so that I could clean under it

As I burst into tears

As the historian told me the reason I have so much stuff is because of a whole bunch of things that are right with me and not because I'm a horrible person

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Lord, there are so many ways to begin this post.

Earlier this week, I sent my daughter this text:

my rescuer.

America: it is time, apparently, to reckon with my life. And why not? Tomorrow, I start a Poet in the Schools gig down in Spanish Fork, and in two weeks the NEH Extravaganza starts for four weeks, so why not excavate and simultaneously judge my own chaos? Because it just can't freaking wait one minute longer, that's why. And because my study is, has been for awhile, and as God is my witness shall not be anymore starting. right. NOW, a nightmare.

"What a nightmare," I said, as we turned the giant chair on its side, the better to wiggle it through a doorway.

"No, it's not, sweetheart, don't say that," said the historian. He was probably hoping I wouldn't burst into tears. TOO LATE.

"Actually, it's more of a description than a freakout," I said, calmly.

And THEN I burst into tears.

But we moved that massive chair downstairs. I've thrown away some stuff, and put stuff into bags to give away, and there is still way more stuff to go through. But I'm going to do it. I'm going to do it because it is time to be able to work in my study without having to either (a) ignore what is plainly in front of me--piles and piles of little books I've made, books I've bought, papers I've sorted once and then left to drift into other papers until they've probably procreated; receipts, art supplies, little notebooks; sharpies, pens, pencils; flash drives of various sizes and eras; drafts of poems...the list is endless! or (b) feel I am drawing near to becoming a hoarder or Miss Havisham or both. And (c) I want--need!--to have a calm, peaceful place to work, for crying out loud.

I am summoning up my most ruthless self, clearer of decks and restorer of order. I have been this person at times in my life, and I think I can become her again. Especially if my daughter is with me. She has offered me incomparable aid at various intervals. 

"I'm glad Sophie is going to help me," I told the historian. "She'll help me out, and all I have to do is let her make fun of me a little."

Once, she helped me clean out my kitchen. She held up a small pile of accoutrements (which shall remain unspecified and undescribed). I wilted.

"But [beloved person] gave those to me," I whispered.

"Mom. Things are not people," she said firmly. And into the box they went.

Things are not people, America, and the things are damn well not staying in my study.  

Snippets.

I don't think I need to really explain anymore how I feel about pancakes for breakfast. Like, that they are everything that is right with the world in the form of griddled batter? Or that they taste, with butter and maple syrup, like an epistemology? Or that they are, probably at a molecular level, integrally involved with the whole notion of a "good day"?

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I am obsessed with Trader Joe's. Now that there's one within range--not all the way downtown, although, on the other hand, all the way across the valley--I feel that I should be there frequently, to inspect the possibilities and to buy cheese. Possibly another potted hydrangea. Maybe some more of that Jumbo Raisin Medley? I can't get over those raisins. They might be the epitome of raisins.

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Target, on the other hand, was not the least bit illuminating today. Three pairs of shoes--all variations on a theme, never mind what the theme was--all on sale, but none of them in my size. A ridiculous shortage of white jeans, not that I need any more of those, either. They did, on the other hand, have dog food. And also a Moleskine notebook that was divided into chapters. A subdivided Moleskine? I did not buy it, but I might regret that.

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I woke up feeling just the tiniest bit croaky today. I had to investigate that situation. Was I getting sick? Could this incipient sickness be a consequence of all of my labors? Did I need to lie down for awhile or all day?

Well, it has disappeared, this croak. Good thing. Who needs to have an incipient sickness on a Saturday in April?

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Today we did some cleaning and straightening. That's because my son, the one who lived in India, is picking up his fiancee from the airport tonight. They will stay at our house. This obviously calls for vacuuming and putting things away and clean sheets and all manner of orderliness. We will meet her for the first time in maybe an hour and a half. Which means I should probably go do just a little more cleaning and putting things away and wiping surfaces in the kitchen.

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But not before I say that Thai food is making a comeback in our lives! There was a period of time, not so long ago, when I thought that I had, perhaps, seen the end of the Thai food craze in my own personal palate. Then, a couple of weeks ago, we decided we'd check out our old regular place, Thai Delight, in its inglorious strip mall location. Lo! It had remodeled and expanded, it was busy, and the food was delicious, maybe in part because we weren't eating it every weekend. Tonight, my son the soccer coach ate yellow curry, the historian had Massaman curry, and I had Pad Kee Mao. Also, papaya salad. Transplendent. My son, who had never had Thai food before, was especially impressed.   Thai basil is pretty much the very best thing, at least right now, Saturday night, with the Jazz down by two with a minute to go in the third, and the house almost clean, and a bride-to-be on the horizon.

[also: poem in view]