the archives

I've been grubbing through my closet—you know, throwing out the old tax records, sneezing my head off because of the dust, rediscovering items for Claudia's Clothing Museum, restacking everything so that things are better labeled the next time somebody has to go through them, like probably when I'm dead.
One closet mainly contains photographs, pictures of me and Hannah taken by world class photographers in Uruguay, Ecuador, China, Cuba, Tibet, New York, as well as negatives of people I can't recognize saved for reasons I don't understand. There are manuscripts of the unpublished historical romance, the unreadable diskettes from a forgotten computer of Baby and Childcare for Working Parents, the audiotapes of my interviews with George W. Bush and Al Gore for an article never printed because Life magazine went down the tubes—again. There are dozens of videotapes for a reality series at a nudist colony, now defunct, that never got aired by Oxygen. Then there are the notebooks of forgotten stories, bound with disintigrating rubber bands, labeled Love and Amazon—and MO.
An old picture of my main pals from Missouri (above, taken by an ex lover) proves that I integrate past and present in daily life as well as in cardboard boxes. See you soon, Frank and Dianne!