My Little Golden Book of Phobias

I "cleaned out" my office today. It's a dreadful kind of task. I pile up many piles of photos, poems, books, check ledgers, cameras and more books. Then I go away for a while. I don't write in there. I write on the couch downstairs with the cats draped around me. By the pink and green plant I just got and the big one with the long leaves I fuss over all the time. There's a buddha carving in here too, for ballast. The upstairs office has a forlorn light. One of the cats sits on the desk and sheds cat dust. Today I found bits of bird on the window sill so I think there have been bird murders in there too.

But.

I went in there last week and made an awful mess, the kind I loathe. And I let it sit there for several days to marinate. This morning, my contractor guy called and said he was coming over to work in that room. Gawd. So I had to wade in and begin.

Here's the problem. I sit down with a packet of photos and then I'm lost. Lots of trees and water and mountains and skies and children, all different ages. And there are boxes of photos. Then there are the check stubs and statements. How long are you supposed to keep those? Forever? What about the homemade cards from the children? And love letters from people I no longer remember.

Mostly though it's the stacks of poetry, mostly mine. It's a giant pile, clipped and scribbled on and sorted and unsorted and manuscripts and loose and untidy, a gawdawful tangle. Busted notebooks and scraps of paper.

Besides, my sweetheart is moving in. Moving. In.

I haven't lived with anyone for the past three years. I have forgotten how. I think it's like riding a bicycle. A big beautiful bicycle that goes real fast along the lake. With streamers. And a bell.