What a strange lane it is sometimes. Looking back at my room as I clean and prepare for a permanent move has been a tripp – pun definitely intended. I’ve been shoveling through the excess of the 90s, simultaneously musing on how fortunate and spoiled I was, trying to dig out what I should bother carrying on with me into the future in a tiny New York City apartment. There isn’t going to be a lot of room for excess baggage, and while most of my excess emotional baggage has been shed, I still have the matter of the physical accumulation of stuff that so often accompanies said emotions.
The other thing about leaving a room empty (with nothing but your junk) and then returning to it is the occasional unidentified object that appears – things that aren’t yours that appear in your dumping ground because some one else doesn’t know what to do with them, and for some reason they decided to use your bedroom as a recepticle for their junk. If you’re not sure what to do with your own shit, put it in someone else’s space – a fundamental principle of human existence.
Below are some shots of the wreckage – some comically mine, some comically not mine, and some I’m genuinely not sure if I ever possessed them or not. I’ll let you be the judge:
This isn’t even all of them. WHERE AM I GOING TO FIT THEM ALL????
You’re not going to believe this, but not mine. Which means it must belong to someone else in the house. My mother with her three master’s degrees and stories of dysentery in the Soviet Union? My father with his chess grandmaster mind and passion for trains and containers? My sister the Dr. Who-watching future PhD? But seriously, it isn’t mine!
BAH! *hits head against wall*
I know I repressed some memories from college, but was being a stripper one of them?
My parent’s daughter, I’ve got books for days. But two copies of the Qur’an and only one of the Bible? Somebody better call homeland security.
Is point A the past or future?