I have a memoir started, having moved from the fictionalized version of our life in Vermont to what really happens here. A love/hate poem actually. Then I have my flash/micro/gesture collection that I add to occasionally. A scarf I began to knit in 2008, and another from 1957. Dragging around little bits of myself that eventually come together as some sort of narrative. It expands, of course, into the boxes I drag around containing bits of others…my father’s unfinished novels, my grandfather’s smudged eyeglasses and the leather bag of silver dollars he gave to me when I was a child to save for my own grandchildren. Of which I have none. But the sadness made itself into an essay that I have just submitted to the New YorkTimes “Modern Love” column (1% of the 8000 each year get published) so nothing is really wasted.
And I have today to finish this piece that started with a tiny scrap artist book and ends with glorious handmade paper from my recent trip to Rochester Art Supply.
As I was rummaging in a cupboard this morning I stuck my finger on a vintage swag tie-back in a bowl full of something else, which revealed a bunch of old tie-backs which will join some antique wrapping paper I’ve had sitting on an old file cabinet from a decade ago trip to a Maine flea market and voila! Tomorrow’s project is revealed.
Nothing wasted. Nothing finished.