Spaghetti Head...

Moving presents all sorts of interesting philosophical crossroads. High on the list is what to save and what to toss. Do I lug around these boxes of precious writings and dusty whatnots for the rest of my life? I guess I'm more of a tosser (go ahead and giggle British folk). It feels good to get rid of things. To let go of the past and focus on the future. Then again, there's a strong note of self-editing in the act of tossing. There's the declaration: I don't need this materialistic detritus from my past anymore... then comes the ceremonial jettison, crowd cheers, bow. Underneath: I don't want this crap because it makes me nauseated to see it. So goes the subtext.

The timeline of my life is in shambles. I've moved so many times and tossed so many things, the evidence is just not there to assemble a proper chronology of my life. What about memory you say? Well, that, dear readers, is in shambles too. So many present moments have been about yearning for a better future that the memory files are never recording properly, and thus I am left with an archive consisting of a fantastic muddle of time-warped spaghetti strands. One day perhaps I'll attempt to unravel that ball of pasta.