Note to Self - Sept 27 2021

 

Note to Self

Sept 27 2021

I write my grocery lists

on the backs of scraps of paper.

I love lists,

the sense of order

the feeling of control.

Which is mostly illusion, I know

but I still can't resist.

Composed of things

like notes to self

cryptic addresses

and quickly penned messages

while talking on the phone.

As well as rough drafts of poetry,

scrawled in black ink

on blank paper

in my barely legible hand.

The usual palimpsest

with arrows snaking here and there,

rejected words

crossed-out hard.

So when when it was unwittingly dropped

  —  desperately patting my pockets

and pawing through the bins  —

I felt a rush of embarrassment.

For the eccentric assortment of foods

the usual shopper

would never stop for.

For how specific I get,

picky as a toddler.

And for the snippets of poetry

that would hardly make sense

to anyone else,

might seem precious

or mark me as odd.

Who knew

that an instrumental list

as disposable as anything

could make me flush red hot.

As if kale and garbanzos

were really so exotic.

As if poetry

has something wrong with it.

As if I should be feeling so self-conscious

that I'd written a note to myself

about love

and loss

and longing.

As if such thoughts

were my own private torment

and mine alone.

Eventually, I found it

beneath the beetroot bottles

in the bottom of the cart.

And raised it like a trophy, relieved,

gratefully unfolding

the tattered scrap of paper

and pressing it flat.

That my list was in hand

order restored.

That nothing would be missed.

But most of all

that I remained unexposed;

my notes to self

and whatever inner life they revealed

were still mine

and mine alone.

They don't anymore. Contain poetry, that is. I used to write exclusively in long hand, but recently I've taken to writing directly on the computer. But an inveterate list maker, I definitely am. I'm forgetful. And I do need that feeling of control . . .however illusory actual control is in life.

I think we often forget how similar we all are: that we aren't as alone as we imagine in what we find embarrassing about our private thoughts and inner lives.

And we don't recognize that the spotlight effect – the feeling that you're under a strong white light, and all your actions are being scrutinized by those around you – is a pretty universal delusion. When, in fact, the vast majority of people are too involved with themselves to bother even noticing you.

I have to admit, though, that when I find a discarded grocery list, I do read it. And yes, judge. Just as I can't help judging the food choices of the people lined up at the check-out with me.