woah, dude

well. right. after a bloody awful weekend here I am with the sudden information that tomorrow I am to go back to my old house and get the hell out of there. Although Poppy's cat burgler idea was very appealing, turning up with a bloody girt van and hauling as much stuff out of the attic and rooms as possible seems to be the flavour of the moment.
I remember just around the time I left it I wrote
"how can you hoard memories? how can you be sure your memory will be enough? so many important and influential things...times... how do we know they won't just fade and become nothing? there's SO much IMPORTANT stuff... I just don't want it to slip away."
that rung home with a few people - mainly, I think, because of the time of life etc.
Now, I don't think I give a damn. I've been looking at the photos I took, running through the house, trying to catch it all, and I looked at one of the kitchen, remembering being there, and I could hardly believe that when I went home it wouldn't be to there; that house, that space, those memorable things. But it doesn't wrench at my heart to know that I never will be back in this place where I grew up, (tracing patterns of lettes on the wooden cupboard doors when I was too small to even reach the countertop, or welding fudge to the baking trays in an early cooking attempt [afterwards it just had to be eaten off - what a damn shame that was]). Whether or not it's because I know that if ever I do think of that kitchen, or the house at all, the first things that will come to my head will be the february-dark evenings, the gentle banjo and illogical lyrics of Alison Kraus, my mother's obsession, playing gently on the dodgy CD player resting on the turned-off frezer, at an angle so it wouldn't skip (one of the early CD players, bought for a whopping £200 for my brother's 16th birthday in Aberystwyth back in 1996), my mother and I in the yellow light reflected from the yellow walls. it sounds peaceful, and in a way, it was. But it was a peace brought by a temporary pause in the war, rather than a contented life. there was an edge to it, and I don't regret the fact that I shan't be going back to that.
Still, there is a final look around at a house transformed tomorrow. I've been told it's 'gone to pieces' - much like one half of it's past inhabitants, and as my mum's dresser and wardrobe, my brother's books, my tit tat, is taken the place will no longer be that that I remember. So why give a damn? I have mentioned many times that I am happier now than I have almost ever been. I forget, or get 'down' (to boogie, yeah!)sometimes, but if we were contented for every minute of our lives, nothing would be interesting, would it?
an interesting final day in wales before tripping of to the land of the scots it shall be, indeed. Life is so full of variety and interest, I wonder how anyone can be bored.
I know I have said this many times before, but this is not really meant to be read, but I wanted a record and thought this would be an apt one. I could just save this somewhere quietly and forget about it, but I'm trying to be brave with my writing and just go for it. the tone is a little melodramatic and soppy, the style may be tending a little to that of Jane Eyre, which I'm currently reading (though I may just be flattering myself to think so) and this last sentence may be a little indicative of an English Language student's pomposity, but the facts are there and it's not meant to be self pitying.
You must excuse the surup, it is barely intentional. maybe I should really just be writing 30somethings' romance novels instead. tee hee