I'm bringing back the junk drawer.
Surely you're familiar with the household junk drawer. In my parent's house it is in the kitchen, on the island, next to the drawer for placements and napkins, and regularly stocked with rubber bands, ballpoint pens, a screwdriver or two, school papers, polishing cloths, post its, batteries, coupons, newspaper clippings, and the occasional action figure. The junk drawer was, inevitably, a constant frustration. The contents were haphazard; they would overflow, preventing the sliding drawer from comfortable closure. Resigned, my mother, normally a lightning rod for organization, didn't even both with its innards. The chaos in the junk drawer would be contained by neither plastic caddy nor the most rigorous filing system. It remained in our kitchen a satellite nation, like American Samoa, unincorporated and unorganized.
As a child, I embraced the junk drawer. It was one of four hiding spots my mother had for Hershey's miniatures, and could occasionally yield unexpected delights in the form of crayons or rubber bouncy balls thought to have been lost forever. Yet, as I grew older and my mother's organizational tendencies revealed themselves in my maturing brain, I began to reject any clutter, no matter how harmless. Tensions grew between areas I strove to corral, and the need for catchalls to contain life's everyday trinkets.
If you were to look in my e-mail inbox, both at work and home, you would stifle either an eyeroll or a laugh. There are nearly as many folders as there are e-mails. I have been known to tell people "sour cream? top shelf on the right behind the jelly stacked on top of the margarine." The need for neatness pervades my home and office, of course, but bleeds into my personal relationships and inner perspective as well. I either want wrinkle-free, categorical, polite to the point of inane or I want guns blazing, emotional firecracker frippery. Club soda might seem more bland than your Great Aunt Nana but it will still explode when shaken (or frozen).
Which is why I'm going on blogging hiatus. I want my writing to be better but at the moment that needs private practice. I'm sure I'll be back; I'm too often struck with the need to assault you with my drunk-girl-tall-heels-stumbling words. Until then, all my previous posts will form a collective junk drawer. Unrestrained, disconnected, jumbled. I'll be back when I'm ready to embrace it.