Cleaning House

It is not quite an episode of Hoarders, but nevertheless I am terrified of…

my closet.

It looms, threatening to expose abandoned projects and bursts of inspiration that fizzled somewhere between buying all the accoutrements for a life imagined and unfolding the directions to find that something was missing.

In most cases it was  follow-through.

I am in a constant state of creation. With each step, each breath, I have a new idea that presents itself as word or art or sometimes a tune I keep humming all day, but the ideas can rarely take root in the shifting sands of my mind and let’s not even talk about tending to these ideas. Like the plant withering on my back porch, ideas go unwatered and unfed until their dramatic swooning calls my attention. Even then I just want to throw it out. Mostly so I don’t have to look at it.

So back to my closet.

I moved from New York to Atlanta and never even touched some of the boxes that are wedged between student essays [meant for my teaching portfolio] and a late 1990s video camera [next to VCR tapes of 80s videos] that has trapped some of my favorite memories with no cord to upload or download them to this era. It’s too heavy for the party bag I’ve been toting it around in for years, but there it is, a mass of useless wires and 8mm tapes ripping through the bag. And yet I hold on.

Dresses from another size hang under worn folders brimming with floor plans and contracts signed in wide-eyed ignorance while loads of family photos threaten to cascade over a floor littered with stiff paint brushes and a T-square from my art school aspirations. These objects stare back at me every time I open the closet and I can’t take the accusation: You don’t finish what you start.

I feel accused and convicted each time I venture into the closet for concrete evidence of some experience I meant to fulfill, but just haven’t gotten around to yet. I am guilty. My attention span is nil and since I live in my head that is ironic indeed. Ideas begin in the spirit and transform into vision, but they only have life when their creator takes the step of working tirelessly to share them with the world.

So here I am on the blog that almost went the way of my EPMD record albums, promising that I will face my shortcomings and breathe life into the dreams that insist on being realized, one item at a time, all the while cleaning out my closet.

I’m going in!