Another re-vamp. It's strange, when pawing through my old work ( as I do occasionally when applying for things. It's like when you wrote your first resume, and went scrabbling through boxes looking for that scholastic award you got that one time ) to find something that resonates with an almost David Brin-ian 'potential', that I either didn't see or couldn't realize at the time. Re-vamps feel a bit exploitative, in that way. But who am I exploiting? My past? Is it reasonable to feel protective of an artifact of a personal stage of development long gone, when that artifact can be made to serve the present?

Yeah... did I mention I have a problem throwing anything out, um, ever?

What's extra strange, given that I can't throw anything out, is that I'm perfectly happy re-purposing something. There's a very early example of this, before I was even fully formed as a person.

It was a baby sweatshirt, with my parent's college mascot on the chest, and sporting the school colors. (Actually, one of the only items of college paraphenalia in the house.) One day my mom explained to me that I'd outgrown the sweatshirt, because really little kids don't quite realize these things sometimes. When I really understood that I couldn't wear my favorite sweatshirt any more, I burst into tears. I don't remember the expression on my mom's face, but I can imagine. When I'd calmed down enough to listen, she asked if it would help if we turned it into a pillow that I could keep forever. I didn't really understand what she meant, but I understood she was going to try to make things better, so I nodded. A few days later (I can't imagine when she found time to sew, she was working full-time+ as a plastic surgeon and had a four and an eight year old) she presented me with the pillow, the mascot's face on the front and the corners made from the colored sleeves, and I remember being so surprised, and so happy. I didn't know you could do that, and I understood that it had been a difficult/magic thing to do, and time consuming thing (even that young, I understood my parents' time was precious) and that she had done it to make me happy. I couldn't articulate it at the time, but I suddenly understood something. My mother didn't just take care of me and feed me and cuddle me because she was my mother, she did it because she loved me.

I didn't realize when I started writing it what that story was going to actually be about. But I guess that's why I keep writing in this blog, really. It helps me find things I didn't know were there.

If you'll excuse me, I'm gonna go call my mom.