Blastoff Time

Greetings from space. My long-put-off blog begins today, and there are many things I could do with it, many things I’d like to do with it. I would love, for example, to do a lot of careful reading and analysis on modern culture or world events, or focus in detail on just one area of special fascination.

Realistically, though, I can't imagine when I would be doing the kind of research and thinking I would need to do to make something intellectually thorough. It is far more likely that I will be, at the end of the day, sitting on my bed and writing, well, something, because everyone will know if I don’t. So, in my search for some hook to make sure that I do in fact produce something every day, I decided to start with the world closest to me, that is, an inventory of items that comprise my life, that can be found by looking around me every night in the place where I live.

Item: Stuff

I possess my possessions uneasily. Most of the American population seems to be able to accumulate more and more daily without any attendant twinges, but I am not.

How much time would it take, just picking one thing every day, to have covered every single object in my apartment? Years, probably. The amount of stuff I have here is by no means excessive - I am neither a compulsive shopper nor a pack rat - but it adds up to a substantial amount, for one person.

Paring down, getting rid of stuff in bulk is a pleasure I have learned from multiple moves. To eliminate unnecessary items is to end the day with a sense of being cleaner and lighter, a feeling not far off from happiness. The stuff weighs me down whether I know it or not; the clutter dulls the sense of a room even if it is hidden in a closet.

On the other hand, I can’t claim to be truly non-materialistic, either, because I do love things, and I value some of the things I have very highly. I respond to the thrill of tearing the wrapping off of something that has never been used before. New things are particularly appealing: new silky black sweaters that haven’t been snagged on anything yet, tiny new cameras with sliding silver parts, heavy new smoked green glass dishes, new CDs in plastic cases, new shoes that smell like leather, books, shampoo, sheets, apples, anything.

And here I am with more stuff in one place than I have ever had before. I certainly have an appreciation for nice furniture, but on some level I am conscious that it is more stuff I cannot easily lift, fold up, or shove into a trunk. As George Carlin put it, "If you didn't have so much stuff, you wouldn't need a house. You could just walk around all the time." The heavier the weight of my stuff, the more stuck I feel. It gets harder to imagine having any other life than the one I have.

This may be a symptom of the conflict between wanting to grow up and not. As a grown-up, one is expected to have a place for people to sit. One is expected to have matching dishes. Eating dinner sitting on the carpet in a temporary room with just a few flannel shirts, a beanbag chair and a stereo is for those who are younger, who are generally considered to be entitled to their restlessness. And, even though I am 35, I still crave something like that lightness, that ability to move.

At least, I still want to know that sudden changes in life direction are possible. It’s a new year, so here’s to unforeseen directional changes of all sorts.