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Packing days can be tense and anxious.Or laden with memory. Or both. For ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
querrelle Max, the uncovering, (re)discovering, (re)claiming and discarding has been more of the latter. I brought the lean and mean (in terms of possessions) jawnbc to Sydney 1.5 years ago. Though truth be told I’ve mostly been a no clutter kind of person for years. Not as obsessively as in years past, but still not a packhorse.
In my 20s I rather compulsively traveled through life with a few items short of The Essentials. A futon, a chest of drawers, a closetful of clothes, a small sound system and some CDs. It wasn’t clear at the time, but I was driven by a fear of Life shitting on me and needing to be able to make a quick exit. As my evil twin Noel put it so aptly, “if it doesn’t fit in two Hefty bags, do you really need it?”
A life ruled by fear isn’t sustainable, and eventually I had to live a different way. In my late 20s acquiring a (bachelor, or studio in Americanese) apartment’s worth of furniture felt like growing up. A lot. Regardless, the experience of figuring what is needed wasn’t always easy. But figuring out what I’d like to have was. Not much. So I didn’t get much, purged regularly, and tended to use pretty much everything I owned on a semi-regular basis. Except the Most Favoured Clothes, which I believe all real men must have: the items aren’t important, but the concept is. You know, the jeans (or sweats or shorts or shirt or runners) that are past their Best Binned date, but you can’t part with them...’cause they’re so nice? Mine include too-tight 501s, a UBC sweatshirt, and my Recovering Catholic t-shirt.
For years now, I’ve also loathed acquiring too much that requires care. I grew up with dogs and cats, but a few years of living lint free make it an easy choice--plus I like being able to blow out of town for a weekend on a hour’s notice if I feel the need. Boyfriends I don’t mind taking care of--I even washed Max in the shower today, after . . . you know--but being nice to and being wholly responsible for, are two different things. Almost entirely. This goes even more for plants--even the most co-dependent dog will eventually whimper if not fed or walked. But plants? They do nothing to draw my attention to them. And yes, I mean mine: I don’t smell them, let alone see them, if they’re part of my everyday world. Unless they invent a barking orchid or something, but I’d probably get a dog before a barking orchid. Because dog kisses and dog love are about as pure as love gets. At least in themaster/slave caregiver/pet paradigm.
So today we pick up the keys to our new flat, and it has two rather sorry looking trees on the front balcony. And our inspection form asks us to “water them at least twice a week,” as if they’re part of the unit. I didn’t rent a garden, I rented an apartment. Black thumb, I don’t usually see foliage unless I need to walk through it. Yup, have even killed aloe vera. So no, we don’t have plants, we don’t want plants, we’re not taking care of any plants.
They will die . . .
querrelle Max, the uncovering, (re)discovering, (re)claiming and discarding has been more of the latter. I brought the lean and mean (in terms of possessions) jawnbc to Sydney 1.5 years ago. Though truth be told I’ve mostly been a no clutter kind of person for years. Not as obsessively as in years past, but still not a packhorse.In my 20s I rather compulsively traveled through life with a few items short of The Essentials. A futon, a chest of drawers, a closetful of clothes, a small sound system and some CDs. It wasn’t clear at the time, but I was driven by a fear of Life shitting on me and needing to be able to make a quick exit. As my evil twin Noel put it so aptly, “if it doesn’t fit in two Hefty bags, do you really need it?”
A life ruled by fear isn’t sustainable, and eventually I had to live a different way. In my late 20s acquiring a (bachelor, or studio in Americanese) apartment’s worth of furniture felt like growing up. A lot. Regardless, the experience of figuring what is needed wasn’t always easy. But figuring out what I’d like to have was. Not much. So I didn’t get much, purged regularly, and tended to use pretty much everything I owned on a semi-regular basis. Except the Most Favoured Clothes, which I believe all real men must have: the items aren’t important, but the concept is. You know, the jeans (or sweats or shorts or shirt or runners) that are past their Best Binned date, but you can’t part with them...’cause they’re so nice? Mine include too-tight 501s, a UBC sweatshirt, and my Recovering Catholic t-shirt.
For years now, I’ve also loathed acquiring too much that requires care. I grew up with dogs and cats, but a few years of living lint free make it an easy choice--plus I like being able to blow out of town for a weekend on a hour’s notice if I feel the need. Boyfriends I don’t mind taking care of--I even washed Max in the shower today, after . . . you know--but being nice to and being wholly responsible for, are two different things. Almost entirely. This goes even more for plants--even the most co-dependent dog will eventually whimper if not fed or walked. But plants? They do nothing to draw my attention to them. And yes, I mean mine: I don’t smell them, let alone see them, if they’re part of my everyday world. Unless they invent a barking orchid or something, but I’d probably get a dog before a barking orchid. Because dog kisses and dog love are about as pure as love gets. At least in the
So today we pick up the keys to our new flat, and it has two rather sorry looking trees on the front balcony. And our inspection form asks us to “water them at least twice a week,” as if they’re part of the unit. I didn’t rent a garden, I rented an apartment. Black thumb, I don’t usually see foliage unless I need to walk through it. Yup, have even killed aloe vera. So no, we don’t have plants, we don’t want plants, we’re not taking care of any plants.
They will die . . .
