Moving

Kind of a theme this past month and a half. My mom moved up from Phoenix, just this past week our wonderful friends moved to Kent, music is moving on, and I've decided to move out of my head. It's too cluttered in here and I need a bigger place to live.
I dropped the blinds in September, and the dust has settled onto everything. I can't seem to Swiffer the sucker out. I'll have just gotten one room cleaned up and organized, and when I move on to the next, I just put everything from that room into the first, making it just as bad as before. My fingers are cold from touching things long left standing in the air, and those cold tendrils cling like spider's silk to me. I think it's spreading.
The pulley on the blinds in each room has broken, so I can't let the light in. And nothing is as distressing as being in a closed, cold, dusty room with the flourescent lights of bitter memories flickering over discarded joys. And why are they tossed aside? I think it's because my fingers are so cold from handling past disappointments that those pretty things fall from my grasp. And then there's a phone call. Or someone knocks on the door, and you wander from those pretties. Dust gathers so quickly, that by the time you come back they are coated with neglect, dulled by distraction, and cold from the loss of your warm attention.
I've tried closing the door on those rooms, but I'm down to just the kitchen now. And I can't live here anymore. So I tried to go back to the rooms and toss out the things that I thought couldn't be saved. And put them in the garage because I'm a packrat. I still haven't called the Blind to come and pick up those donations. I'm so pissed at myself, because I know that someone else could make better use of my discards than I. But I hold onto them because it's a promise to myself that I know I can leave unfulfilled. It'll always be there if it's in the garage - I can just go out and get it anytime. So I made it look appealing and felt a sense of accomplishment for doing it. I gave myself the credit like I'd actually gone through it all and really cataloged it, reinstated some, and truly identified what should go. But I didn't do that. I just put it into colorful boxes with vague labels and patted myself on the back. Went out and bought other things to fill up those rooms again, luster turning into tarnish relatively overnight.
Once I realized what I'd done, I decided to sell this place. Move out of my head. But that's just the same problem except I'd give up the security of going into the garage and bringing out old pretties to console myself. But maybe that's the answer to breaking this bad, bad habit. Take away my security like a baby blanket (mine had clowns, which I hate now. Huh. Random ~ ). I packed up the boxes of what I thought I could keep in those rooms and was walking for the door when I stopped. Looked around. Thought about renovating...but no, I should really go. But my hand wouldn't reach for the doornob.
So I stood there, in my head, a few boxes of worthiness at my feet, and really thought about the place. I'm still here, thinking about it. It's not a bad place, now that I'm ready to leave it. What keeps us here, in our head and our intentions, our same old patterns of thought, belief, habits? The galaxy moves in patterns that minutely shift every millisecond, so there are no real examples of true stability to reference when considering why people stay in the same place and/or headspace for most of their lives.
I don't want to be one of them. My wanderlust is not just a result of moving around a lot as a child, it's part of my worldview. 'Repetition is death, Frankie (Bucket of Blood - really funnycool old horror flick).' How can I learn anything when I hide in my head and my good intentions? I run through my head and rip down the blinds. My place is like new. It's just that the last tenant didn't clean up very well. I've got a lot to do.
But now I've moved.

Little Haven

I did indeed switch over to a blog on MySpace, but have found the idea of continuing this one, just for me, to be quite satisfactory.
I flaked out of the jimmystuarts thing - we couldn't hook up our schedules and when the lead singer didn't call me back I figured that was a sign and let it go. Found out later that they thought the same thing. Hmm. Obviously not meant to be. And thank goodness, since most of my time last year was consumed with work, school, and Ryewire. Ryewire burned brightly, started guttering, and due to a little rampant self-destruction of one member, fizzled just last month. I can still smell the sulfur in the darkened, quiet room.
This past summer, I found a lot of enjoyment doing theatre again and finishing FREAKING FINALLY my Associates Degree. I wrote a few pieces that I'm preparing for submission and - that's it. My mom moved in with my hubby and I, so we've been adjusting.
I'm still working crazy hours, not really taking care of myself, and am losing touch with friends whom I dearly love. How can you hold onto the pieces when they're made of wax and your hands are burning with self-recrimination?