So I cleaned my desk today, like I'm sometimes prone to do. In fact, I'd cleaned it just the other day, about ten years ago. A stickler for neatness am I.
Er, so, alright ... I lied a bit, I mean, who cleans a WHOLE table at one go! Or even those innumerable drawers? I managed to sort out just one, drawer, that is. But ah, and this is where it gets increasingly juicy - it was the SECRET DRAWER- the one that everybody pretends not to know about, the one that my mother frequently lurks around, in the hopes of catching me with marijuana, or sleeping pills. [Yes, yes, in subsequent entries readers are bound to be regaled with little snippets of my family's substantial bouts of dementia, which includes my Mother's paranoia about my being suicidal. "You're 22, single and clueless. If these aren't the symptoms of being a suicidal mayhem-maker, what are?" she reasons.]
Nevertheless, this one isn't about my mother, to move swiftly on. Years and years of memories, of school days, in the form of innumerable photographs, elegies written on the slaying of pupils by vicious teachers unleashing weapons of mass destruction in the form of chemical equations and calculus, chits passed about boys [all chits signed by graphic chit-writer "Middle Finger". I recall the sign being very fashionable in my school days], spiteful limmericks about all those who weren't favoured by our self-proclaimed anti-establishment.
More photographs - of Weight Lost & Weight Regained. Love Lost and well, am still at lost. Cigarette packets slyly hidden, from days of yore when i was a naughty girl in school. An empty box that had once contained chocolate pastries. Ten years old, mind you. X-Files postcards, posters, calendar, newspaper articles, a little scrap of paper where i've scribbled Mulder in red, pink and violet ink, and topped it off with a shy 'David' ensconced within a wobbly heart-shaped blurb. I was a fan, I yearned for the truth that was out there, it could happen to the best of us! Birthday cards, New Year cards, Valentine's Day, even Woman's Day.
All buried under ten years of dust and a community of silverfish that I have now rendered homeless.
[Ok, I swear I'd started with a purpose, I wanted to SAY something, other than enlist contents of my drawers. I've lost the thread .. the whole yarn now.]
Not my fault you know, when you've spent 3 sleepless nights staying up waiting for snakes to slither in through windows and from under doors and are in a constant state of panic, you tend to lose things. Your mind, for instance.
There you go, a bit more trivia, I'm morbidly afraid of snakes. I dread them, they repulse me, and horror of horrors, one was spotted in my garage the other day. I could tell you more, only, it's the middle of the night and I'm scared.
So then, in the process of arranging the ex-chronicles, I went back a couple of years. Photographs take you back, and how! He was a good man, sensitive, caring, emotional, stupid and so bloody good in bed! Turns out he knew that too. Well, I'm being a little too harsh, but never mind that. he inspired poetry and spiritualism in me. That is, after we broke up. I become creatively abnormal post break ups. That was ex-penultimate.
NewsFlash: Episode titled "Enquiry Into Secret Drawers of Rainbeau Peep [Non-sexual]" has been prematurely discontinued, as the writer-subject has fainted of morbid boredom upon glancing through her own writing. Rainbeau Peep has, however, threatened to complete and subsequently publish her ex-files at a later date. Cyber-litterati are in frenzied distress, seen to be lurking around blogosphere, looking fervidly behind their shoulders, dreading the moment of despair, when aforementioned files shall be inflicted on their unsuspecting selves.