I dismantled my room this weekend. Destroyed my dresser, consolidated everything wearable to makeshift compartments, the closet. There are boxes of things(and by things I mean such a modge podge of miscellaneous that it would be impossible to go into detail here without creating a novella of lists), things still not accounted for that have exact “place” to be.

And there are poems. My goodness are there poems. Poems forgotten about, poems unfinished, typed and in scrawl. Words written in Seattle, in New York, San Francisco, on planes and at bus stations. Poems written on napkins during various periods of waiting. I’m taking my time, going through them, fighting to circle forgotten stanzas that seem worth keeping–things described in a way that I could never manage again. A part of me wonders: what is worth keeping?

What defines being kept? How do I know that I will use/recycle a verse written years ago, how will it pertain to now? Do I really care to archive these sentiments? And what makes this one worth more than that? What if I just take it all to be recycled–does that do damage to history? How much do the ideas exist outside of the folders, the drawers, outside of my head? Where do I take them? What is the shelf life?

I discovered an old artist’s resume, once again forgotten about, listing shows and experiences that have somehow slipped by the present day pulse. Like the International Slam in Toronto. Dj and I went representing Pittsburgh. Things felt lopsided. Before the performance I watched track and field on the hotel television, completely in french. I loved Toronto. Shane Koyczan performed and singlehandedly ripped my heart out(as usual–the man is a beast).

Also on the resume: running the youth slam in Dayton on Saturday afternoons. I loved listening to the kids pour forth their arsenal, on page and by memory. It felt amazing to be part of something still developing–to witness this incredible generation of things to say, of worries and victories, of life. I loved the young girls who read their love poems in drifty little voices, so much steel by the end, getting on tiptoe into the microphone to drive the point solid. One month I decided to be a judge for the competition. One girl read a poem that I knew had been written before. I shook my head. Plagiarized. The same poem was given as a handout back in my high school days, the week before prom as a warning about drinking and driving. I held up my score card when she was finished. I had to give her a big fat zero, and all the kids booed me, but it wasn’t her work. Rules are rules. A lot of the kids went to the same school, and teachers started showing up. They were concerned about the material, and they were trying to censor the very voices they were trying to nurture. I hated that part of it–I made a point to introduce the event by reminding the kids that they were safe, they weren’t in school and we weren’t going to squash their expression. I wanted to fight hard for their right to get it out. I still want to fight for that.

Other things…the 63 page project still unfinished, dedicated to one year of my life. In some light, the craziest year, the most difficult. I will not throw it away; I will have to finish it because some of those paragraphs I cannot and will not write again, I know that.

There are the poems from slam, the ones written to be recited with beginning-middle-end; the ones that, if read quickly, are less than 3 minutes and 10 seconds. The ones built for an audience. The ones that I still know by heart–surely these can be tossed, as they are memorized. Does the once-purpose of some make them more worthy than others?

What about the words to no one? The folders and notebooks filled to save my sanity, the parts of me that are mine, the space between the big things. It all adds up to something. I am running out of room, running out of compartments to store them in. Do I rent a storage unit, start filling it, leave something humorous in the event of a someday death? Even the pages with single sentences–they seem relevant. I want to honor the scribbled past, but I must make room for now, and then more. Where is the limit? What must be kept?

This entry was posted on Monday, September 1st, 2008 at 10:05 am and is filed under writing. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.