Knick Knacks Or This Dog Doesn't Need a Bone

Today I was getting coffe, stumbling around the aprtment when I knocked a magnet off my fridge. It wasn't my magnet-it was one of the dolls-and as I put it up I wondered what it meant. I don't have magnets, I don't collect shot glasses, I only put up pictures of friends and family recently. I guess I'm not a sentimentalist.

I have been dealing a lot with knick knacks, bric a brac, souveniers lately. I have been helping the boyfriend redesign his apartment; moving around furniture, putting up shelves and mirrors, organizing things to prepare for his new bed. I spent all day Sunday putting away books and films, pictures and papers but I had the hardest time figuring out what to do with his momentos. I spent last Monday helping Kelly and Johnny move from their apartment into their house, struggling with boxes of letters and cards and handfuls of leis from concerts and novelty items and not getting it. Because I don't have those type of things.

Part of me wonders if this is weird. That outside of letters from college and college friends, a handful of stuffed animals from various family members and carnival fairways and old journals--I don't really keep much other stuff. Part of me doesn't like the clutter of greeting cards with just signatures or empty plastic cups from casinos or ticket stubs from concerts. Maybe it is because I try and write down all the important things here and in my other journals--that the emotions and memories, songs lyrics and quotes from friends, are all in one place with context attached.

I document my life this way because it feels easier to keep contained and understood. Even when things change and grow, when the plot twists and turns, I can look back and with in minutes understand and remember everything so clearly. That by choosing words and sentences with though and detail I can reenforce all the moments and people in my life by putting it down in black and white. That I don't need to be reminded that I got lots of holiday cards or that people like to remember me on my birthday--that instead I can go back and read my story any time and know how I got where I am and who got there with me.

But still-there is a part of me that wonders if I am weird for this since everyone else seems to keep boxes and shelves of the past's most physical aspects. That maybe I am more aloof than I think because I don't feel the need to have tactile proof of my adventures and associations.

Or maybe it is just that I have an amazing memory?