"Crap! I wish I hadn't seen Ricky on the sidewalk."

"You will be fine for 31 minutes. You will be dead in 32 minutes."

Wednesday, July 3, 2013


I lost an entire post on July 1st, which is a little ironic since it was basically a description of what it's like to shed material possessions.

Most of these posts are stream-of-consciousness, composed in haste at the end of my day, but that doesn't mean I don't spend time editing or tinkering with word choice. I'm not above setting aside a draft that isn't working, either.  

So I lost my post after working on it for almost an hour and I had no energy to start all over.  I wrote down a few lines in case I decided to revisit it and then I went to bed.

Here's the gist:
Superman #164 (October 1963)
I’m feeling a little in-between these days.

I’ve spent the last three weeks boxing up my possessions, even though it’s not clear where I’ll end up. All I know is, I’m not staying here. 

No matter what, I’m heading to a smaller space.  It’s time to cut back, it’s time to slim down, it's time to make some tough decisions. 

My storage space is already three-quarters full.

I've thrown out a lot of stuff, things I've kept for three decades or more. I fill up my recycling bin every week, I called the city for a bulk trash pick-up, and I've made several large donations to Goodwill.

Sophie Zawistowski had to choose between her two children. Big deal. Easy-peasy.  

I've thrown away nearly 1300 issues of Entertainment Weekly. Ticket stubs, balls of string, love letters written, love letters received.

You know that sense of relief and fulfillment people say they get once they’ve shed all their material possessions?

I don't have that, but I understand it.

Last week, my dvr got fried. I had nearly 100 hours of premium entertainment (movies, television, talk shows, etc.) recorded over the last six years.  

And then suddenly I didn't.

It only took a second to register. The machine wouldn't turn on, there was no way to access my recordings.

And that was it, no two ways about it. Hasta la video, baby.

And I was okay with that.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

I've always had a love affair with things.  Magazines, books, music, movies.

I like them pristine, I like them mint. Do you know how many items I have that are as daisy fresh as the day I bought them?  The correct answer is “practically everything.

Do you know how many relationships I’ve soured by telling my girlfriends not to place their drinks on top of my magazines, not to read my cd booklets with greasy hands, to please hold my vinyl records by the edges?

Do you have any idea how much wrath I’ve incurred from friends by gently asking them not to dogear the pages of my books, not to crack my spines, not to read my books in their bathtub?

Me, I'm a perfect browser.  My hands are almost always powder dry. I never leave fingerprints, I never leave traces.

Do you know how many merchants have openly weeped as I examined their wares, painfully aware that no harm would come as I lifted their items off shelves?

I've kept things that are important to me. I've kept things I cannot replace.

I won't miss this house but I'll miss the space.

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