A couple of nights ago, I found myself first glaring at my phone and laptop as they refused to transfer photos from one to the other, and then poking through the thousands of images that overwelm the memory on both devices. There were lots of pictures of the boys, but also a ton of images documenting small projects I’ve been doing since we moved to the house four years ago. Photos I meant to post here and write about, but became part of the ocean of things I poured away while depressed. Things I sewed and stenciled, rooms I arranged, meals I made. The backyard’s slow transformation, the chickens, and pets. All left to rot away in memory, pixel by pixel.
This is not the biggest thing I let go of in the last few years, nor the most important thing. But it’s the most public aspect of myself, my electronic face and voice here on the intertubes…and I let go of it first. Both interesting and forboding, like discovering that I’ve become one of the Haight Street bag ladies from my childhood, talking only to myself and unseen interior companions.
No revelations or answers here. Just observing the bag lady.