There is just so much of it. Songs written, released, performed. Poems, essays, articles published. Paintings and photographs fading in the sun. So many works still cowering in boxes, bundled up in stage fright. Their ribbons have come loose.

I am moving in less than a month. Beginning to sift through closets, drawers. My windows are open. I’m letting my skeletons out for a dance. Looking back at older work, I can now map out my obsessions. They’ve all led me here. And they will lead me “here” again (and again and again). In retrospect, I can see that my younger self already knew exactly who I was becoming. Those early essays and poems were the blueprints.

I am slightly bewildered as I look around. Where does one put it all? Retiring would seem like the practical choice. Stop producing stuff I have no room for. And yet, somehow, I feel like I’ve barely begun. I can’t help it / C’est plus fort que moi. I am praying the world will stretch. 

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