[Me]… the slug…

May 11, 2005 journal entry
Pieces of Me collaboration – Deb’s Journal

When I was in college, there was a guy that was part of my group of friends called Doug. We’d nicknamed him Doug the Slug, for various and sundry reasons, but probably mostly because it rhymed (and I seem to recall a band that was quite popular at the time called Doug and the Slugs).

Well… I feel like a slug these days. I’m tired. I don’t feel like creating. I am in a slump, but that’s not to say that my brain isn’t brewing on ideas and planning the next assault on my art workbench. I’ve also been doing some reading–checking out art books and periodicals for inspiration, and reading newly purchased books. I’m a sucker for a new book, mostly of the art and self-help kind, and if both subjects are somehow combined, oh boy, move over ‘cuz here I come!

I picked up (and also ordered on Amazon) some books in the last few days. I pre-ordered the sixth Harry Potter book. Then I ordered some books relating to art and its use in therapy, not to mention a few more that relate to journaling and art. I found another book yesterday at Barnes & Noble entitled Creative Utopia: 12 Ways to Realize Total Creativityby Theo Stephan Williams. I started reading the book last night, and am enthralled. I will quote a passage which struck home with me, because it recounts an experience which almost identically replicates my own:

“I was twenty-three, in love and moving in with my soon-to-be fiance. I knew it all. In the basement of my old apartment building, I hurried to purge my belongings. The dumpster outside was totally empty; this would be a piece of cake. I had forgotten about a large unwieldy box that I had stowed away in my assigned storage area. On rediscovering it I was horrified to see that all my diaries, their keys now rusted, my spiral notebooks, old pens, sketches, memories–everything I had so carefully document from an early age–had become stained and mildewed because of a leaky window nearby.

Without another thought I heaved the cumbersome box into the dumpster. Daunted for just a second, I peered into the rubble resting at the bottom of the rusted steel cave, which would soon be picked up by a colossal blue truck and carried to the incinerator. I shrugged away the dismay; I simply didn’t need that stuff any more. Wrong, oh, so wrong, foolish young girl.

I have regretted that loss for many long years and I have become quite a pack rat, keeping everything containing even an inkling of a penned memory, reflection or inspiration from my past. Erasure is impulsive and the result is immeasurable, irretrievable and unforgivable. Enough said.”

I could have written that passage. I did a similar thing in my early 20’s, reading through the diaries that I’d kept from fifth grade through my teens and became so embarrassed by all the blathering about boys and such that I decided that I’d “outgrown” them, and tossed them out, including a bunch of poetry I’d written. To this day I regret that moment of bad judgement, that moment of being so full with my “adult” self that I couldn’t look past the embarrassment and find the strength to keep all of those writings for my future self. I, too, am a consummate pack-rat, in my middle age (just ask my husband).

It’s muggy this evening, although it’s cooled down; I still haven’t quite adjusted to the higher humidity levels that we have here, living closer to the coast, even though it has been almost two years since we’ve moved here. It’s more humid but not quite as cool as it gets closer still to the coast, so we get the muggy without the cooler temperatures. We used to live inland, where the temperature was HOT but it was really dry. In the evenings we’d get the coastal winds blowing through the valleys and it would cool down really nicely (although during the day it would be so hot outside, even at this early time of the year, that I would hole-up inside and not want to venture out much, if it could be avoided). But… the lack of humidity was definitely a plus. The heat combined with the humidity remind me of home (Montreal). I hated it then, and I don’t feel any different about it now.

It’s Sunday night and there are only a few hours left of the weekend. I’m ready for a shower and will read a bit more of this wonderful book and then slumber off. Tomorrow is the start of another week, and there is no such thing as a slow week for me these days.

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