In conversation with objects of memory
I've always been a sentimental person. Sometimes I think it may be to my detriment, but that ugly feeling never holds much weight against my affinity for collecting. I've had many collections over the course of my 25 years lived: albums, ticket stubs, outdated tech, to name a few. Like writing, my fervent need to hold onto physical pieces of my life has kinda always been there, ever-present and gnawing at the back of my neck. I wish I were speaking in hyperbole, but I'm being serious; I have a scar on the back of my neck from involuntarily scratching it. Most of my tics involve scratching at my skin in some form, often amplified by the overwhelming ache of letting things go. Right now, as I write to you like my knights at the round table, I'm feeling notably bored and contemplative (and also thinking I should rewatch Merlin). Sam, you're my blog confidante, my Sir Gawain! Most of the time, I thrive on being alone, but right now, I'm going through the motions of true boredom for the first time in a while. This boredom isn't inherently negative; it's unplaceable. I don't feel bad, but I don't feel much about it, period.
When days turn abstract like this, I find myself turning to the odds and sods I've held onto for undoubtably way too long. The memory box I started when I was 11 became two, three, and now four dollar store boxes stacked on the top shelf of my closet. Every time I dig through them, I portal to different PJs across time. The theatre programs from every show I've ever done remind me that I was a lot braver than I ever gave myself credit for, and so many of them hold the names of some of my closest friends to this day. Some of the greatest and most batshit insane people I've ever met were theatre kids. You think frat boys know ball? I raise you: teenagers at their musical afterparty with little drinking experience and a narrow window before pick-up time. I smoked weed for the first time at the High School Musical cast party (sorry Mom), and baby that's a rite of passage!!
The piece of pink extensions I kept from the first time Mom let me put colour in my hair reminds me of clumsily finding my "style" for the first time. I mourn the loss of the awkward pre-teen era nowadays, whereas I used to look like a randomized Sim with painfully bad eyebrows. I know I sound like an old-head, but I think kids today need that uncoordinated time to play, test, and express themselves unburdened by the blubbering beast known as insecurity. Does anyone else remember those beaded hair pieces? Or the HAIR FEATHERS OMG (I love you 2010). Regardless of how poorly these trends have aged, I see a limp strand of pink hair at the bottom of this box and feel gratitude for a childhood so open to discovery. I don't know what possessed me to keep a piece of hair, but 14 years later, I'm grateful I did for no other reason than I love to reminisce tangibly.
My assorted tickets have always been my crown jewel keepsakes. The earliest one I still have is the most faded, barely legible Cineplex stub from a 2014 showing of The Fault in Our Stars. You have to hold it up to the light to make out the text, and it's printed on the classic receipt paper they used to use. I miss her. Another one that always makes me smile is a ticket for Jurassic World, which is so covered in graphite from my school pencil case that it's nearly solid black. I still get stains on my fingertips from holding it.
A selection of my ticket collection :)
My family, in more ways than one, is very different than me, particularly in the ways we cherish memory. I've been told my grandfather will never truly be gone because I've adopted his hoarder tendencies. Sometimes I think people say this as a warning to heed, but I've never seen it that way. My grampy's old garage used to be filled to the brim with aisles of shelves, holding no doubt anything you could ever need for any possible situation. My most vivid memory is the coffee tins filled with nuts and bolts. To me, this is how I remember the people, places, and life moments that made me who I am. It may not make sense to my poor parents, who've had to deal with my numerous collections, but I can't explain the warmth I feel from walking down these lanes of memories whenever I choose. I'm sure there's something to be said about the struggle to let go, the concerns of clinging to objects, or the risk of placing so much weight on minuscule things, but that's a conversation for another day! Haha, it's still MY blog, aka I will pick and choose when to have important moments of self-reflection. You can't make me!!!
I found this pic online to illustrate the vibe Gramps had goin, but just picture Maxwell House tins instead, ok ok.
I would love to know how you engage with memory and how that relationship has met you at different moments in your life. Do you collect, or do you cut the strings of connection toward physical objects? I recently donated 2/3 of my CD collection, as I decided it was time to dust them off and let them find better homes in the hands of people who would actually use them. In cases like this, I had to acknowledge that my collecting sometimes stretches beyond nostalgia and into a territory of maintaining control. The feeling was further confirmed by how good it felt to let them go. So if you go to the thrift store here and find a nice new selection of CDs... you're welcome, babes!
Talk to you, idk, someday soon,
PJ <3