The Blue Blanket Conundrum

Well, the fancy canon digital camera my Dad gave me just announced it was a dead with a blood curdling buzz. Since I’m not about to buy another one in the near future, I guess that’s the end of the photography part of this blog for the time being.

This death is in keeping with my theme: impermanence. My afternoons are spent going through all the boxes of my accumulated stuff. First, I scanned all the photos, then I scanned all the correspondence I could, now I am taking apart and shredding all the medical charts I have accumulated.

That’s right, medical charts. For about 18 years I practiced homeopathy, and then quit for financial reasons. Medical charts can’t be destroyed for 7 years, so I’ve been holding on to them. I had hundreds of clients over the years, and the faces of most of them pop into my mind as I shred their charts. I think there are companies who do this for you, but being a cheapskate, I am doing it myself. It is unclear if the $85 shredder will survive the whole job. Sometimes it seems unclear if I will survive the whole job! These charts have clasps and staples, and these need to be undone by hand. I suppose I could throw away the file folder part, but I am too much of a tree-hugger to waste all that cardboard. So, I cut or pry the clasps off. The shredding part seems to generate a some kind of electrical field that does not make me feel well. Fortunately, I have moved beyond the moldy files now—I am no longer vaporizing mould into the atmosphere. But there is a charge to all that violent churning of the machine, and I am a sensitive little flower.

The boxes of non-paper stuff are a delight to dispense with after dealing with files. I just threw out yards of rainbow colored cloth from an ill-conceived curtain project in Greenfield, MA. I just found my faded corsage from my wedding there—I am happily friends with my ex, but don’t need to keep dead flowers to remember her. Yellow vinyl men’s rain pants. A worn out ill-fitting Tibetan skirt. A dirty down coat with a broken zipper and duct tape patches. These items post no obstacle to disposal.

Tonight, though, I face two of my own baby blankets. The pink one that I never favored, and MY BLUE BLANKET. I was as inseparable from my blue blanket as Linus was from his. The blanket use persisted, and did the pacifier, long beyond the appropriate age of obsolescence. In fact, the fact that I still have it bespeaks of it’s symbolism.

The qualities of my blue blanket that made it so lovable were three-fold. First, I think in the back of my mind I knew my Mom knitted it during while she was pregnant with me. Second, it is a nice soothing color, a light greenish blue. Third, the yarn is fabulously soft, perhaps cashmere. But the most satisfying thing about this blanket was it’s smell.

Now, the little faded blanket smells mostly like basement. But, if I bury my face in it like I once did, I do believe I can perceive a faint hint of its old aroma. I think the old smell must have been the smell of the wool itself. Family systems being what they are, I could always seek solace from my blue blanket, plunging face into it’s comforting folds and being transported to some other place of warmth, softness, soothingness: unconditional love.

I would like to thank the goat who’s wool became my alternate universe.

But, what to do with the blanket?

Letter Litter

Dear Reader,

I am mulling over the idea that all denial is fundamentally denial about impermanence. So, I guess you could say my primary interest and practice right now is completely facing up to the natural beginnings and endings of things.

I spent the day continuing tackling a big box of filed letters people wrote me in the 1980’s. I was in my 20’s in the 80’s, a young revolutionary of the radical feminist kind. In the early part of the decade the internet was mearely a glimmer in it’s creator’s eyes. We had no fax machines, no scanners, no he copy machines. Calling long-distance was quite expensive, so we rarely did that. A good typewriter—an IBM Selectric—was completely out of reach cost-wise for young people, particularly countercultural types like my band of Midwestern lesbian-feminists.

So, what did we do? We wrote, and we wrote, and we wrote. We wrote on yellow legal pads, we wrote on spiral notebook pages, we wrote on a the continuous green paper that came out of computer printers, on construction paper, greeting cards, and quite often, the backs of extra posters from women’s cultural and political events we organized.

I have literally thousands of pages of these letters. Now that people don’t write letters anymore, and few people know there even was such a network as the earnest Amazons of the 70’s and 80’s U.S., I find it difficult to throw them out. So, instead, I am making pdfs of most of them. The criteria for keeping-versus-tossing is “Will this fit through my Scanner?” I am taking them by the handful, not reading them, just trying to get the pages right side up and roughly in order, and the coaxing them through the feeder. Big batches of them, hundreds of full color letters in one pdf marked with the approximate year received.

I’m trying not to read them, just plow ahead and get one grocery bag after another into the recycling bin. But, of course, the memories come back just seeing the handwriting. The stirs up many thoughts, like:
• where did we find the time to do all that writing!
• how romantic we were, about politics, culture, friendship and love
• how kind and nurturing to each other—since we didn’t have babies in those days, could it be we were lavishing that unspent nurturing on each other/
• how passionate about everything, we spared none of the emotions
• brave really, but overly proud of it
• how interwoven art, poetry, song and politics were with our lives

I thought I was tremendously important in those days. At that time one could just put out a newsletter or two, organize a few events, write a long article about one’s half baked ideas, and one could view oneself as an influential woman. I wrote everyone in our community, blowing off my mouth, no matter how old or highly regarded they were. And, what’s amazing to me is that they wrote back. I have letters from the lesbian glitterati of the day: Adrienne Rich, Holly Near, Alix Dobkin, and the leaders of virtually every women’s publication in the U.S.

I also kept unbelievable weird letters. A 1983 forty page critique of everything about me from my lover at the time, a letter from a masochistic man who wanted to be my slave, and a letter from a radical lesbian woman of color Dianic Wicca practitioner who wrote a raging diatribe to me in purple ink, enclosing in it a small swath of cotton carrying dried lavender flowers. Of the later, I remember having the feeling when I had received it 25 years ago that a curse was contained within it. When I think about that young woman now, I feel so much concern for her. She was from Oakland, and very troubled. Did she live or kill herself? Poor honey. I remember that even among the uber-radicals out here in Oakland she was viewed as distressed, but too defended to help.

After scanning that last batch, I felt dizzy and weak and needed to get some fresh air the lie down. Was there still potency in the hex-laden lavender?

With that I will close, dear reader, and write again another day.

Sincerely,

Yudron