Thursday, May 30, 2013

one hand in my pocket

Part of my spring cleaning ritual is to go through all my clothes, no matter how often (or not) I wear them.  As I began piling coats/jackets for dry-cleaning, I emptied the pockets of each.  The contents are usually a very good indicator of the last time they were actually worn.  Also, this year, I’ve decided to replace my cheap pleather jackets (which make me unbearably sticky) with real leather.  This was an easy decision to make in a vacuum.  Actually holding my little black number, with its ruffled detail and pewter buttons, I vacillated.  I remember where I was when I bought it (Sainte-Catherine St W, with AnCe and Nish) and where I first wore it (Au Pied de Cochon).  As I emptied the pockets, I also remembered the sad occasion when I wore it last.

Here’s what I found:

Two American pennies:
1994: starting high school, this year was a formative one.  I had access to the best music and the easiest wardrobe choices; I made lifelong friends and nemeses; I discovered my sense of self under a great big Canadian flag in front of a bunch of strangers.
2006: debt-free, clear-eyed, newly-housed – this was the true beginning of the rest of my life.

Hair-Tie, in apple green.  Can never have enough of these, especially in apple green.

A poem, by Dylan Thomas:
Your breath was shed
Invisible to make
About the soiled undead
Night for my sake,

A raining trail
Intangible to them
With biter's tooth and tail
And cobweb drum,

A dark as deep
My love as a round wave
To hide the wolves of sleep
And mask the grave.

A receipt for $42.97 from The Flower Shop

Sometimes, it’s not worth hanging on to something for sentimentality only.  I don’t wear this jacket, ever.  In theory, it’s beautiful: totally my style and edgy-cool.  In reality: it makes me uncomfortable.  Into the donations bag it went, hopefully a memory-maker for someone who can stand the heat.  Me?  I’m moving on.

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