Letting Go
Oct. 30th, 2010 01:58 amSpent much of today at the storage unit, clearing, sorting, repacking, and shifting. Tomorrow I’ll drop several boxes of craft supplies at the Creative Reuse Depot in Oakland. (Then I get to spend the afternoon playing Dogs in the Vineyard.) Old files are mostly being stored—I did a serious File Sort before I moved back into the house. I’ll take excess dishes, pots and pans, and other kitchen stuff to thrift shops. I’m keeping the irreplaceable, of course, and the functional things we need. You’ll have to wrench my Atlas pasta maker from my cold dead hands. But many things I loved are going to other homes.
Some things I’ll try to sell. Time to start thinning out beads and selling more of my old soap molds. Time to cut the library again—yes, even after last year’s Big Purge, when I sold 22 boxes of books and gave away half a dozen boxes.
The process of cleaning out the storage unit seemed impossible at first. Then it seemed possible but unending. Now I can count the number of boxes left to sort.![[personal profile]](http://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
gramina, justifiably wary of my optimism, just asked me, “How many digits?” Single. Of course, after the storage unit is done I have boxes in my bedroom and in the garage. But I’m feeling strong and ready to strip away the unnecessary.
Some of these boxes have followed me around the country for two decades. Others were packed and shipped in haste from the East Coast to California, and I couldn’t bear to unpack and sort them—to see what had and hadn’t survived the split with my ex-husband, the move, the leaky storage place, and the looting by the storage/moving workers. None of it matters any more. I’m letting it all go.
I always felt protective toward the thrift-shop finds and roadside discards that I found and that Billy and I painstakingly refinished. I valued them when no one else cared; I made them beautiful again. I felt guilty when I had to sell the pieces I’d cherished, as though I were abandoning friends. Eventually I realized that someone else would find them in the junk stores and antique shops to which they had scattered.
So the missing pieces hurt less, even the ones I'd keep if I could. The little papier mache dragon incense burner my big sister got me when I was 10 seems to be gone. So is the inlaid box where I kept my dice—and the dice, of course, though kind friends have given me beautiful dice. Someone else may discover the box and marvel over the dice. Someone who can actually burn incense may find and love the dragon.
Time to let them go. Out into the world.
Some things I’ll try to sell. Time to start thinning out beads and selling more of my old soap molds. Time to cut the library again—yes, even after last year’s Big Purge, when I sold 22 boxes of books and gave away half a dozen boxes.
The process of cleaning out the storage unit seemed impossible at first. Then it seemed possible but unending. Now I can count the number of boxes left to sort.
gramina, justifiably wary of my optimism, just asked me, “How many digits?” Single. Of course, after the storage unit is done I have boxes in my bedroom and in the garage. But I’m feeling strong and ready to strip away the unnecessary.Some of these boxes have followed me around the country for two decades. Others were packed and shipped in haste from the East Coast to California, and I couldn’t bear to unpack and sort them—to see what had and hadn’t survived the split with my ex-husband, the move, the leaky storage place, and the looting by the storage/moving workers. None of it matters any more. I’m letting it all go.
I always felt protective toward the thrift-shop finds and roadside discards that I found and that Billy and I painstakingly refinished. I valued them when no one else cared; I made them beautiful again. I felt guilty when I had to sell the pieces I’d cherished, as though I were abandoning friends. Eventually I realized that someone else would find them in the junk stores and antique shops to which they had scattered.
So the missing pieces hurt less, even the ones I'd keep if I could. The little papier mache dragon incense burner my big sister got me when I was 10 seems to be gone. So is the inlaid box where I kept my dice—and the dice, of course, though kind friends have given me beautiful dice. Someone else may discover the box and marvel over the dice. Someone who can actually burn incense may find and love the dragon.
Time to let them go. Out into the world.
Gnawin' on It
Oct. 25th, 2010 06:23 pmA combined meme and personal update. Also a pop-culture query.
Life is still unsettled, but that's just how it's going to be for a while. I'm hanging in there. Trying to get myself more organized and to continue the vast project of stripping down my possessions. Still fighting insomnia and leftover PTSD brain chemicals.
Luckily, I have a lot to look forward to: cheering the Giants in the Series,joedecker's art opening, the Richard Shindell concert. Also turns out that Shindell, a thoughtful, complex folksinger whose work I find tremendously moving, was in the Boy Scouts with my cousins in Long Island. They didn't know he was a musician. It's very small and somewhat bizarre world.
I could use some help on Saturday while I am sorting stuff in my old storage unit and moving it to the new smaller unit. The moving of stuff is easy -- they supply wheely carts -- and mainly what I want is company while I sort stuff. If you're willing to take stuff for yourself, to give away, or to drop at a thrift shop, better yet, but this isn't a requirement. Being willing to listen to me laugh, scream, cry, and tell long pointless stories about what I unearth is essential, however.
We watched Bubba Ho-Tep the other night, which I enjoyed a lot. Ossie Davis is a brilliant actor.
( the iTunes meme )
What's up with you?
Also, have you ever heard of Awkward Turtle? Used the gesture? Seen it used? When did it start?
Life is still unsettled, but that's just how it's going to be for a while. I'm hanging in there. Trying to get myself more organized and to continue the vast project of stripping down my possessions. Still fighting insomnia and leftover PTSD brain chemicals.
Luckily, I have a lot to look forward to: cheering the Giants in the Series,
joedecker's art opening, the Richard Shindell concert. Also turns out that Shindell, a thoughtful, complex folksinger whose work I find tremendously moving, was in the Boy Scouts with my cousins in Long Island. They didn't know he was a musician. It's very small and somewhat bizarre world. I could use some help on Saturday while I am sorting stuff in my old storage unit and moving it to the new smaller unit. The moving of stuff is easy -- they supply wheely carts -- and mainly what I want is company while I sort stuff. If you're willing to take stuff for yourself, to give away, or to drop at a thrift shop, better yet, but this isn't a requirement. Being willing to listen to me laugh, scream, cry, and tell long pointless stories about what I unearth is essential, however.
We watched Bubba Ho-Tep the other night, which I enjoyed a lot. Ossie Davis is a brilliant actor.
( the iTunes meme )
What's up with you?
Also, have you ever heard of Awkward Turtle? Used the gesture? Seen it used? When did it start?
FELINES: An Open Letter and a Query
Jan. 31st, 2007 03:57 amDear Bunnicat,
You do not live here.
I say this to you every time I see you—usually at least once a day, when you’re inside my kitchen eating Gabriel’s food. The other night when you came strolling into the bedroom was the outside of enough. Gabriel thought so too. At least you took the hint when she started hissing.
You’re a big, soft, furry lump of feline. You don’t seem neglected or hungry. You smell like an intact Tom or a slightly diluted skunk. With your Himalayan markings and deep, plush fur, you’re probably someone’s pampered pet, just out to snag a little extra kibble. Your bobtail looks astonishingly like a rabbit’s tail; I can’t tell if you lost some of it in an accident or were born with a fluffy three-inch stub.
If you insist on using the cat door to visit my apartment, I expect you to follow protocol.
1. Leave Gabriel alone.
2. Do not spray in here or use the litterbox. Do your business outside.
3. Don’t eat more than half the food. Yes, I’m putting out extra. I’m a big old softy.
4. Remember that my lease is restrictive: I am not allowed to have more than one cat.
5. If you show up late for dinner, do not stand in the kitchen and howl in agony. Learn to shake the dry-food dispenser as Gabriel does or show up early enough to get canned food.
6. No fleas. I mean it.
7. Stay in the kitchen. Venturing into the carpeted areas is tacky, especially since (A) you shed like a snowstorm, and (B) you won’t let me touch you.
8. Go home occasionally. As I have said, you do not live here.
Oh, and you might stay still long enough for me to get a picture.
Thank you,
The Management
PS to Humans: Is it possible to have a cat door for my cat and still keep out bold neighborhood felines? How?
You do not live here.
I say this to you every time I see you—usually at least once a day, when you’re inside my kitchen eating Gabriel’s food. The other night when you came strolling into the bedroom was the outside of enough. Gabriel thought so too. At least you took the hint when she started hissing.
You’re a big, soft, furry lump of feline. You don’t seem neglected or hungry. You smell like an intact Tom or a slightly diluted skunk. With your Himalayan markings and deep, plush fur, you’re probably someone’s pampered pet, just out to snag a little extra kibble. Your bobtail looks astonishingly like a rabbit’s tail; I can’t tell if you lost some of it in an accident or were born with a fluffy three-inch stub.
If you insist on using the cat door to visit my apartment, I expect you to follow protocol.
1. Leave Gabriel alone.
2. Do not spray in here or use the litterbox. Do your business outside.
3. Don’t eat more than half the food. Yes, I’m putting out extra. I’m a big old softy.
4. Remember that my lease is restrictive: I am not allowed to have more than one cat.
5. If you show up late for dinner, do not stand in the kitchen and howl in agony. Learn to shake the dry-food dispenser as Gabriel does or show up early enough to get canned food.
6. No fleas. I mean it.
7. Stay in the kitchen. Venturing into the carpeted areas is tacky, especially since (A) you shed like a snowstorm, and (B) you won’t let me touch you.
8. Go home occasionally. As I have said, you do not live here.
Oh, and you might stay still long enough for me to get a picture.
Thank you,
The Management
PS to Humans: Is it possible to have a cat door for my cat and still keep out bold neighborhood felines? How?
