Some of my "stuff"!
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A good thing about being a writer and an activist is that often an archive wants your “stuff,” to allude to the late comedian George Carlin’s riff about why we get an apartment, house, or other living abode: so we have a place to put our stuff!
A good thing about being a writer and an activist is that often an archive wants your “stuff,” to allude to the late comedian George Carlin’s riff about why we get an apartment, house, or other living abode: so we have a place to put our stuff!
In
my case it’s boxes of papers, sermons, manuscripts, correspondence, articles, periodicals,
etc. having to do with my lifelong vocation of changing church attitudes toward
lesbian, gay, bisexual, and transgender people. And the archive in question is
at the Pacific School of Religion’s Center for LGBTQ and Gender Studies in
Religion in Berkeley, California, related to the LGBT Religious Archives
Network (LGBTran), and administered by the Graduate Theological Union.
Half
my office and half my personal closet and most of an attic storage space and
some of our crawl space is devoted to storing this stuff. And though Wade would
be justified, he only occasionally asks me the question that titles this post.
Instead, it’s me that keeps harping on the question to myself as I walk around
file boxes to get to my desk.
When
I moved temporarily to San Francisco to serve First MCC as interim pastor, I
sent 25 boxes of files to the archive. What remained was material I thought
I’d someday make into a scrapbook (not going to happen!) or might need for
future projects or could use to remind myself that I once was somebody! But also—look of chagrin on my face—were boxes of
piles rather than files.
Y’see,
I used to be pretty good at filing things, but I only have two file cabinets,
requiring boxes. But more to the point, once I’ve finished with something, I’ve
lost interest. George Lynch once told me I should never give a sermon twice,
because I was obviously bored with it in my second delivery.
I
would let finished projects pile up on my desk until, in a sprint of cleaning,
I would sweep them off my desk into a box to sort through later, something that
rarely happened. Now I know archivists love such archaeological “digs”—or so I
am told—but I’m not convinced poring through unopened bulk mail or trying to
figure out why I saved the odd printed matter would be to anyone’s liking. And
they might miss something relevant. There may be things too personal to share
or photos I’d like to hang onto. Books, as well—given that sometimes a volume from
my library has sunk into the quicksand of my working detritus.
So
what’s keeping me from going through these boxes of piles and files?
First
of all, it’s just plain overwhelming. So many file boxes and so little time! And
every artifact has the potential of sending me off on a reverie of remembrance
of times and people and events past, not always happy, not always sad.
Recent research reports that the perfectionism of younger generations has increased
dramatically. Perfectionism can prevent one from even starting something if it’s
not going to be perfect. But I only want to prepare my papers reasonably well—let
the archivists do the “perfecting.”
A
few posts ago, I shamed myself by admitting that earlier last year I had read
“most” of Alan Burdick’s Why Time Flies:
A Mostly Scientific Investigation (2017). My wise friend, Jim Mitulski, once
told me that if you don’t make it past the first 50 pages of a book, you’re
never going to finish it. But I had made it within 20 pages of its end, and perhaps
thought the 40-page bibliography and index meant 60 pages to finish. So this
week I completed reading it.
What
I found was the author’s own wondering why he took so long to complete writing the
book. He references Saint Augustine, for whom “a syllable, sentence, or stanza
in motion was the embodiment of time; unfurling, it stretches between past and
future, memory and expectation…” Then he writes:
Hypothetically, the same is true of a book: as long as it remained in motion, the author’s present would never end. You can see where this logic is headed. Immortality was a book that was perpetually unfinished. (p 257)
Now
I have wondered if my procrastination
with the file boxes is some sort of fear of shoveling dirt into my own grave.
The author J. D. Salinger sent 60 boxes to his archive three weeks before he
died. Have I been afraid that sending the remaining boxes to my archive would
simply be punctuating my absence from the active life? (No, I won’t go so far
as to say it would mean my death, like the grandfather when his clock stopped
ticking!)
I
have hoped for some kind of “after life” in which some cute gay researcher might
be passionate about my papers and do some kind of thesis about me and my work.
That would likely backfire, as future judgments might render me some kind of
“dinosaur,” as Bill Johnson once referred to us LGBT “pioneers.” God knows that
even now, I have not been considered transgressive enough by some Queer
thinkers. (Though our transgressive president should teach us this is not
always a “good.”)
But
I’ve come to the conclusion that my dilly-dallying is the same phenomenon that
caused me to sweep this material into boxes in the first place—I’ve finished
with it. I want to do something new. I’d rather write this post for my blog
than return to things I’ve done or left undone.
Fair
warning though—when I finally go through these boxes, you might wish I hadn’t,
as I might find things that prompt nostalgic posts!
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Copyright © 2018 by Chris R. Glaser.
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