Every day can't be the best day

Almost a solid month has passed since I got back from KY. I've spent it mostly by going on crazy destashing sprees of purging anything that isn't bolted down from my room and closet. I feel like Motley Crue in a hotel room circa 1982. Despite my concern over this manic state, I did accomplish two important goals: there's an actual hamper in the closet and an empty suitcase available, in case I ever need to go somewhere. Moral of the story, dream big, people.

The rest of the time has been spent reading and cultivating a refined sense of ennui. Normally I'm fairly resilient, but this summer has floored me psychologically. Sometimes I try to wriggle free, but like a straitjacket or the Snuggie from hell, my depression envelops me and and struggle is useless. Better just sit here and take it. Currently self-medicating with cookies and Sylvia Plath -- surely this will end well.

I try to leave the house as often as possible to stave off the impending Mrs. Rochester-style decline that will be my undoing. But getting out of my house is no easy task. My parents are extremely paranoid, and are convinced that every outing spells doom, even for themselves. I went to the mall today after sitting through a ten minute lecture on being careful and aware because someone had once been robbed in the parking lot. I dealt with this warning by parking in the Bass Pro lot. What fool would mug someone in the vicinity of at least fifty men with knives and/or guns? Also, it was broad daylight on a Thursday morning. What can I say -- fearless.

Oh, well. Every day can't be the best day. Maybe one of them will be, though.

Louisville: the London of Kentucky

Well dayum, why couldn't I have lived here? Louisville is a magical city of riverboats, huge-ass Victorian houses, and endless bridges over relatively untroubled waters.

We went here on Tuesday, and did the usual BB 'n ALB circuit: cemeteries, letterboxing, tea, and architecture creeping. There are precious few people that share these interests, so I'm grateful for a friend who doesn't mind off-roading in the name of the fascinating and bizarre. Our destination today was Cave Hill Cemetery, a Victorian cemetery and arboretum built by those who truly understood how to memorialize the dead in style. Huge mausoleums, impressive sculptures, memorable names to add to my perpetual list ("Freelove" and the Strother twins, "Owen Gray" and "Gray Owen"): this place has it all.

Oh, and this guy who seems to be famous hereabouts:

For house and architecture creeping, there are the beautiful "Old Louisville" neighborhoods which managed to survive the wrecking ball as well as the general shocking decay of other similar areas (I'm looking at you, Cincinnati). Blocks and blocks of gorgeous Victorian monstrosities along St. James Court (in various states of upkeep and/or division into apartments): who would I have to kill to live here?

And then the tea. Why this idea hasn't made its way to Nashville yet, I'll never know.

You know those East Nash hipsters would be all over tea soda in a Mason jar.

After this adventure, BB helped me pack and flee the scene of this summer's crime(s). We spent a couple days in Nash, including a full thrifting tour (plus "the bins" outlet -- think Goodwill meets Thunderdome: "Two men enter, one man leaves!"), breakfast at Noshville, Marathon Village, and assorted other stops that make this such a great place. But, alas, she had to return to the homeland, where gainful employment and an exciting future await. Fare thee well, faithful friend. May the color of the day be ever in your favor.

Back home in Nash, killing time til diving back into the shit show that is school/work. This week has been consumed by a massive wardrobe/book/junk cull that has been years in the making. "What is a closet, really, but a catalogue of the different personas we have auditioned and discarded?" (Tim Gunn, who's looking more like a guru every minute). I'm not an inherent hoarder, but I do unnecessarily collect certain things for various unhealthy psychological reasons I have come to recognize. But why hold on to things that are no longer appropriate or that no longer make me happy? Surely absence is better than hoarding unhappiness. Is it because I think nothing better will come along? But it will, because I deserve it and will work to find it. Donate ALL the things and start afresh and unafraid. "When half-gods go, the gods arrive."

Obviously this is a bigger issue than hanging onto middle school jeans (not that I did that...), but you get the idea. Better an empty closet or heart than one that is full to the brim with things that bring you down. Hurry up and clean it out, because better things are on their way!