Another week with K in Florida, and therefore Me and The Kids alone. Yesterday was a bittersweet day--I made good progress on cleaning out a bookshelf scheduled for Goodwill, but in the process I had to Let Go Of My Youth. You see, I have a whole bunch of manuscripts from friends who, like me, fancied themselves playwrights or authors (well, in fairness, I fancied myself one--they still are), and yesterday I bit the bullet and threw them all out. (Sorry, Clarence! I'll still read your stuff, though...) I drew the line at throwing my own manuscripts away, but everything else went--old plots and scripts for lighting designs, programs from plays I've seen (except for No Man's Land signed by Harold Pinter himself) and performed in... but there comes a point where one just has to admit, one will never read or look at such things again, will one?
Argh, what an idiot! How am I going to be remembered without any artifacts of myself? What will D and E pore over to gain clues about their tragically misunderstood father? Where will historians of the future be without papers for the Zachary F. Brewster-Geisz Reading Room at my alma mater?
Come back! Come back, recycling truck! All is forgiven!