My ex and I sold our house this month. He lives there so I shouldn’t have much to do, right? Wrong. Neither of us like clutter but we have a lot to go through. He preferred we do this together so we both have a chance at taking what we wanted. It sounded easy enough until I remembered all the containers in storage downstairs.

That’s when I started to question why a person saves what they do. I can understand the six large totes of die cast cars. The blankets our kids used as babies and toddlers brought back many memories. All the Christmas decorations were acceptable as were the few of his seasonal clothing. After that, the items became a bit questionable.

Our son is thirty-four and I found the cards we received from friends and family when he was born. I had to ask myself why I kept them all these years and for what use. With them was also a stack from our wedding. Now really, what did I plan on doing with them anyway?

In another container, I came across old card games I had as a child. The next two were full of quilts that we never used. One was from my mom and the other from his mom. Neither of us is the old-fashioned quilt kind of person. Digging into one more I found a set of fifteen books that my parents bought for me when I was eight.

The ex reminded me that I still had the table and chairs that I received when I was four. My intent was for that set to go to one of my kids for their children. Neither has any and it looks dim on that front. Don’t get me wrong here, though. Not everything I found was mine. There was the little wooden box the ex made in shop class that had old knives in it. They were either broken or so rusty as to be useless. I lifted the lid on one tote and found pictures, letters, drawings and military awards from his brother that died before the ex was born.

Ceramic pieces from my mom, trinkets the kids bought for us, souvenirs from trips and more all needed a home. I think I have it handled after a few trips to the local charity and several bags of garbage. It wasn’t easy, though.

Selling the house isn’t like just packing up and going to another one. This is a complete split of four people. No longer can I have just one container with our kids’ baby blankets. Our son moved away years ago but is coming back to take some items we didn’t need. The ex will live in a small apartment for now. Then there’s our daughter. She was living with her dad but will move in with her aunt. Each person will take their own things as they go.

There are memories in every single one of those containers. Do I need the items to retain them? No. Each one is stored in my head. It sure makes me wonder why we kept some of the things we did, though.

My first eXcessica blog post. Oh, the pressure! *wipes brow* There’ve been a lot of great posts already. While I won’t have an eXcessica title available for a few months, I want to hop on and ride with the rest of the eXcessica posse.

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Over the past week, I’ve been reorganizing around the house. Juggling its contents. Rearranging. It’s an ongoing obsession, and I recognize it’s a way for me to control one aspect of my life while others are in flux. Balance. It gives me a small measure of comfort and stability in a sea of change and uncertainty.

As I delve into dark corners and bottom drawers, I find myself pondering the stuff we carry through our lives. I discovered my string bikini from 1980 in a shoe box along with a couple other trinkets. The significance of the mementos — read: junk — was lost to the vagaries of memory, but the bikini — WOW! It took me right back to Ocean City, Maryland. I could still smell the Coppertone (SPF 2 — no, I didn’t miss a digit — just 2), and I could feel the skin of John’s muscular catcher’s thigh against mine as we lay side-by-side in the scorching July sun. The sounds of waves, squealing children, and My Sharona on a shoulder-bruising boombox filled my ears like a conch shell gramophone.

On either side of us were similar couples on similar beach towels. It was the summer of boyfriends. My family vacationed with two other families, and they each had a daughter of the same age. That year, Michelle & Lisa brought their boyfriends along as well. We triple dated all week long.

I remember that I wanted to fuck John that summer. It wasn’t really about John, though. I just wanted to be rid of my virginity. However, he wanted to wait, being all wrapped up in his Catholicism. We played in every other conceivable way, avoiding P-V intercourse, and while it was all very enjoyable, it wasn’t enough for me. Our “long-term” relationship ended a few months later when I met the very non-Catholic Mark and proceeded to shed that pesky virginity along with all the sex guilt baggage John lugged around.

As I lifted that old bikini to my face to inhale its lingering “sea & me” scent — and fought the urge to try it on 28 years and 28 pounds later — I smiled at the flood of memories and emotions triggered by such a seemingly isolated object.

Sex is the living embodiment of that, taking all aspects of our beings at that particular moment in time — as well as everything that has transpired to make us who we are — and capturing them in an act of passion that then becomes its own memento. It’s such a multi-faceted beast. It engages all the senses and damned near the entire gamut of emotions. It can strengthen a relationship or tear it apart. It is the crucible.

That’s what makes it so invigorating, makes us FEEL, makes us know we’re alive, makes us crave the experience over and over and over. And that’s why readers seek our work. They want to peek inside our closets and see if our stuff trips any of their triggers. Emosensual (A new word!) voyeurism wrapped in physical stimulation.

As writers, we have the tools with which to capture and convey all of those emosensual delights. Porn, as in film, is limited to the visual and the auditory. While important, I consider them blunt force weapons in storytelling. Clubs. Yes, a skilled actor can wield a club most effectively — just as a good writer can. But the results are better, stronger, and more memorable, if precision instruments are also used: scalpels of scent, tactile chamois, calipers of flavor.

Porn is in your face. Erotica is under your skin. Sex is both — just like the triggers lurking in the closet space of the soul.

peace & passion,

~ Alessia