destashing in the interstices
Thursday 3 July 2008 | 4 cookies in the jar
Th’ dangnab DSL has been in and out, but primarily OUT, since Monday. Bleh! I write this in a rare evanescent blip of pulsating greenness —the technician today pointed out that Tartarus phone lines routinely reach temps of 120º so I suppose we can’t be too outraged by patchy telephony. Maybe tomorrow’s technician will sort the issue and I’ll be able to hurl posts at a statistically indifferent interwebs. A hundred million modems washed up on the shore.
And today is the two-year anniversary of Maman’s passage from this world into whatever next awaits us. Dear G. (Godsister One) called this morning and made me cry twice, laugh countless times, and salivate once, as she, ever her mother’s daughter, described an improbable sour-cream dip she’d made by slowly caramelizing onions for about four hours, the finished dip garnished with candied pecans and sugar-glazed raspberries (dried? not sure)—at any rate I had to wipe slobber off the phone receiver. Maybe that’s what’s wrong with it. All day I’ve wanted to call Z (aka Godsister One Prime) but don’t think I can handle any more crying. Other than the kind I do when I’m on hold for forty minutes at a time with Qwest, or arguing with the tech support flunky about what to try next (“Yes, we’ve turned it on and off again. Yes, we’ve unplugged it and plugged it back in again. No, I can’t unplug the phone and describe what happens because that would end our call, wouldn’t it? No, I don’t mind holding.”).
The modem light is STILL SOLID GREEN so whilst I can, please permit me to furiously disgorge more brain flarf. In the absence of teh webs I’ve been able to accomplish a staggering amount of destashing. I’m still not really sure what possessed me, I just woke up and thought: It has to go! All of it! Destroy it! Burn it! Or anyway take it to Gracie’s, the thrift store across the street. (Which the Brujo has dubbed Cursie’s thanks to a recent experience, reminding me of the time the Physicist bought a nightstand lamp from Goodwill; said lamp promptly exploding and setting his bachelor bedding afire, he thenceforward dourly referred to that fine establishment as “Illwill”).
Anyway the closets and cupboards and drawers are ruthlessly streamlined and there’s a giant Devils Tower-sized monolith of boxes, clothing, and assorted discarded flotsam in the floor of the living room, awaiting its new destination. Getting rid of so many unused Things which aren’t really mine anyway (it’s all just on loaner) has been revelatory. As I’m standing there holding whatever it is in my hand, trying to decide whether to keep it, I feel either an inner dismissal and relief, or a twinge-tug of attachment. When the tug comes, it seems to be almost always for one of two reasons: 1) I feel guilty because Person bought me this beautiful thing and I don’t like/use/want it, and it cost Person MONEY and how dare I get rid of it; or 2) I feel guilty because *I* bought this thing and have failed to do/make with it what I planned, and it cost me MONEY and how dare I get rid of it. To put it more briefly: shame shame and more shame, and would you like some shame with that. And I wonder if, in addition to other OCD-spectrum symptoms over the years, I’m also not a bit of a hoarder (courtesy of survivalist dad and his under-the-bed collections of MREs? I can definitely identify in myself the behavior described as churning; and I think Mandarin and I should see this film now, too, before we deal with similar situations).
Generally I’m able to sigh and put Whatever It Is in the giant pile of Things which are now going to move their energy elsewhere in the world. Some will need to be sold (purple chiffon beaded sari, anyone? oooh—I bet lisekitten would look fab in it!) but for most Things, it’s time to stop thinking about the original price tag and simply release the object, which is going to wind up in Gracie’s anyway when I DIE, so why should it be taking up room in my closet in the meantime? The Brujo hides wisely in his office as I throw around boxes and mutter darkly to myself, and occasionally burst into hysterical laughter whenever I come across some relic of past narrative—you know, old photos, Zen ephemera, Barbies, wedding rings, what have you.
Musician and blogger Christine Kane is to blame for all this, by the way; she’s got me purging and, as Herself used to call it, “clarifying” every corner of our 900-square-foot abode. She deeply understands why Things get sticky, and how to unstick them. It’s new-agey as all get-out (as Ms. Kane, a self-yclept “Woo-Woo-New-Thought-Loving Freak” freely admits), but her words are resonant with truth in my gut these last few days.
We hold onto things for two reasons: Love or fear. We either love them. Or we fear letting them go.
We cherish them and know they have value to us. Or we fear that we’ll need them someday. We fear that we wasted our money on them. We fear what others will think if we let them go. We even fear making the decision to release our mishaps or mistakes, so we don’t make any decision. Instead we hold onto stuff out of guilt.
Well, guess what?
Love is the only reason to do anything. If you don’t love it, toss it. Give it away. Your abundance and energy will increase when you begin to live by love and not by fear. [...] You can fondly remember your Aunt Edna without having her doilies around. In fact, you’ll probably have more fondness once you let go of the doilies!
She’s also written an uncomfortably apt list of 56 things you should get rid of RIGHT THIS SECOND, which list is partially inspiring this purge—though I’m mentally considering it merely Stage One in the process, so I don’t have to get rid of the breadmaker yet. Stage Two, a much more drastic one involving books and kitchen stuff and many paper scribblings, will come when we flee Tartarus in one year, ten months and some assorted days (but who’s counting) for parts unknown (and hopefully foreign, if McCain’s recent, baffling surge against Obama is any indication of which way the wind’s blowin’). Next to tackle: cleaning out the terrifying email inbox (130 and counting!).
And now the green light is flickering ominously and it’s dark outside and cool enough to go the lavandaría; and get gelato afterward, too.
4 cookies in the jar
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My inbox—currently 381 messages strong—laughs (HA!) in the face of your mere 130. I used to be able to keep it under 100, but now even with regular email hygiene (as I’ve come to think of it) I’m happy if it’s under 400. I could probably apply some of Christine’s principles to that, actually.
And I love the song you sent a link to….it shook something loose that was waiting to push its way forward and I’m plotting major career changes. More soon, dear person.
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Editor: Oookay, you win the email contest hands-down, chica. I’m giving myself July to deal with mine, though, before a new semester’s worth of students and classes drowns me afresh.
Yay for songs, for having things shaken loose, and for major changes; and yay for you. Much love!
ahh. so that’s where you’ve been, fighting off the crazies at qwest and not avoiding our anticipation for the humor issue!
i wish i could edit my life like you are…i have countless boxes of old photos, letters, etc. etc. ad nauseam…i am most definitely a hoarder. which i reconsider every time i move, but, of course, all the relics make it safely to the new house, whereupon i have to think, yet again, about how much crap i carry with me.
and so…lastly i want to say…that my better half and i too plan on leaving to foreign lands. especially if mccain triumphs. see ya in morocco? venezuela?
When my friend Greg unexpectedly died in his sleep of heart failure on July 4, 2004, at age 44 (due to a congenital condition his good War Baby parents didn’t talk to him about…I ask all of the Greatest Generation what part of ‘genetic medical history’ do you not understand?…imagine the shame and guilt there….but I digress….), his ex-girlfriend and sister had to dismantle and dispose of everything in his apartment. Greg had become a true hermit in his mid-40s, and his body wasn’t found for 10 days. So not only did his ex and sis have to deal with all his endless junk, but also had to do so in the midst of an overwhelming stench of decayed, deliquescent flesh, lingering on every surface in the apartment during a Los Angeles July. How’s that for “clarifying”? If we don’t do it, someone else will have to. Is part of my point. And the strange thing is no matter what we get rid of, we usually end up leaving at least a body behind (unless we’re incinerated or buried alive). It seems a cruel thing.
Vanity of vanities, all is vanity. And all that.
Yet, while we’re around, despite the body that inhabits us, it’s awful nice to have things around with us. So nice, in fact, that I feel like buying more things right now. To assuage how freakin’ depressing this comment is.
Decluttering here has taken the form of removing from the closets my children’s outgrown clothes, and honestly it wouldn’t be any harder if they were little snakes and I were trying to let go of their outgrown skins. Forget the tragedy of “For Sale: Baby shoes never worn,” there is no reminder of mortality and how fleeting it all is like the pile of outgrown shoes with holes rubbed away by fat pink toes that I swear I bought just last week. The largeness of my older sons’ feet just generally freaks me out.
Email: was recently at 1300 but that was because I was saving tons of stuff in inbox, most of which now lives in its own folders. So I am proud to be at 314 this morning. Not that they all have to be replied to, but so I can quickly find the things I want to read again.