9/19

what makes me willing to discard one bag of dried rosebuds over another?
it's not a memory
i have no specific connection to either.
what makes me want to put that strange horse hair mess into a new plastic bag
but leave the twigs in the one they are in,
when it's just as dirty?

and the twigs...
i know why i keep those
one day i might have the courage to replace the ones that are broken on my mask;
the nightmare mask with the tiny me as its third eye.
and one day i might have the courage as well to look inside some of those boxes
like the one with "house of horrors - clay" written on it
or inside "wax coated barbie"
or "mermaid clay girl"
(I did throw out her boat)
and what is really inside that box that says "mardi gras beads"
if that's what it is
why is it so carefully and completely sealed?

do i really believe i will ever open that brown paper bag that says "tulip bulbs to plant"
do i really believe they are anything but dust at this point?
dust like the water bugs i was keeping
that are now just a feather weight mound of fluff?
and do i believe that i will ever make the shadow boxes for all those early encaustic "specimen" pieces?

i am finding clues to pieces of me long forgotten
and i recognize that there is a delicate balance
between the allure of their mysterious energy
and wanting to piece them together.