Rebirth

Like a man on a sinking ship, I jettisoned some of my possession, hoping to bring myself back into balance. So many possessions, so much clutter. I can't keep up with it all. No time to clean it or dust it or wash it or fix it. No time to deal with the irony of the myth of the settled life. Each thing a barrier between me and my dreams of escape, even though I don't know what I'm trying to escape from.

I did this once before, a few years ago. Everything was cleaned out. I had intended to kill myself, and didn't want my family to have to deal with it all. I didn't do it, though, obviously. I wasn't really suicidal. Just weary. A weariness that never dissapated, was never dispelled by sleep or TV. My dreams of death were really just a hope for a day where I could feel my life, where happiness was not drowned by dread.

Nothing so dramatic this time. Just a desire for less to cause mess.

Having disposed of all clothes that were old or frayed or useless or ill-fitting, I was left with almost nothing. I went up to South Roberson in Beverly Hills to buy a couple of T-shirts at American Apparel.

South Robertson is another world from Crenshaw. Over the span of 4 miles everything changes: ethnic makeup, architecture, class, spoken language, religion. Black become white. Worn becomes shiny. Poor becomes rich. Spanish becomes English. Pentacostal become Jewish. A long four miles in which my beat-up truck is transformed from de rigeur to alien.

On the way, a phone call from a new guy. For me, the time before the first date, when you are chatting on the phone, is often the best part of dating. Everything is hope. I can secretly wonder if this time it will be for real. If this time I will have found "it" without reservation or complication. He sounded kind, thoughtful, a bit egocentric.

Back at home, cleaning the room was easier with less stuff to put away. Another two serious culls should to it. Old computers, old papers. I keep them around because they must contain the answers to the question of me. The imprints of my life must contain the evidence to explain how I became me. I don't dare toss them for fear of losing those clues.

But I don't have time to research myself, to explain to myself how I got here. My life is half over. Shouldn't I just accept that I may never understand myself, and how I got here?

Listening to old music while throwing away papers, I caught myself dancing a little, alone in my room with no one watching.

See. It is working. I'm feeling lighter already.