Memory Lane is a Rocky Road

I am cleaning out my closet. In an effort to prove to myself that I can free myself of material needs and shed weight at the drop of a hat, I am ridding myself of my history.

It's making me all weepy.

I started with re-organizing my wig crate. Yes, I have enough to put in a crate, and they come in handy for impromptu sex games and/or Halloween. Then, I ventured farther, gingerly past the boxes of photos, and straight to the old notebooks. I rid myself of most of the notes from my AP Literature class that I loved (it was seriously like something out of Dead Poets Society, without the suicide).

I still felt strong. Accomplished, even.

I started to weed out my cables. How many telephone cords do I actually need (is the question that remains unanswered as I type this blog out to bleed the poison out of my system). At the bottom of the crate are the old videos; one I made as a graduation present for an old friend. He was recently diagnosed as having a brain tumor and thinks that I don't believe in bi-polarism, so we don't trade phone calls anymore.

Another was an application supplement to get into the Intensive Production sequence in college. My TA told me that my animation idea was "too easy" and "lacked a statement about art or reality." I told him that the point was to make a film that made people smile and appreciate love. I left our meeting in a huff, knowing that I was right, and made a film that not only got me into the program but got me an A in the class as well (graded by that very same TA).

One video was done to commemorate a friend of mine's arrest one Christmas. He and his Kansas frat brothers chopped down a Christmas tree on the Dean's lawn...so we made a 20/20-esque expose on the violent nature of College Kids Today. The finale consisted of us mobbing him paparazzi-style when he arrived home for the holidays, straight from jail. It was the birth of reality TV.

Usually, no one understood why I liked doing these videos, but were kind enough to leave me alone while I did.

Then the musical revealed itself, along with the photographs, the scripts, and the production notes. As I blew the dust off of them and cradled them in my arms, I was hit with the memories of making a film with someone that I no longer speak to, because I pushed them to the brink of insanity and really hurt their feelings.

I am into using vague and numerically-incorrect pronouns like "they."

The Treehouse is a wreck. It looks like my past just heaved and threw up all of Quondam Grae in one multicolored, fake haired lump. This is me, my darlings. It ain't glamorous, it is not neat, and it certainly isn't without fault.

I've been wrestling with these skeletons in my head a lot lately, but I wasn't prepared for how I would feel when I actually held them in my hands.

dem bones. g