resizing
When I was younger, I lived in a shambling brownstone, with peeling wallpaper, an oven that didn't work and a basement that flooded on a regular basis. It had, however, gloriously tall ceilings and those ceilings combined with youth and not giving a damn somehow wrapped all of the decrepitude in a romantic air of gentle deshabile. I've moved to various places since then and had oddly come to miss those ceilings. I also missed other things -- I missed the convenience of having an apartment in the city, where you could walk with friends to catch a movie or spend an evening walking along the river talking about anything. I missed the odd and random encounters that can crop up randomly.
I had, at the time, consciously given these up because if every home is chosen based on a sliding spectrum of features with space at one end, location on another and the entire thing constrained by price; I always tended to slide the selector over towards space above all else. It was nice to have a dining room. It was nice to have basement storage and space to work on bikes. It was nice to have stuff and space for that stuff.
Still, when silentq and I split, and we both planned our moves and looked at apartments; the entire exercise became, like everything else in that summer, an occasion for re-evaluating my priorities. Do I want to live here? What would I gain? What would I be giving up? In the end, I chose a slightly shabby one bedroom in the middle of Inman Square. It is, in many ways, the antithesis of the former Embassie. The Embassie had a kitchen with Corian countertops, an obscene amount of cabinets and more storage space than we legitimately needed. This place has no counters, one closet in the bedroom and only four electrical outlets in the entire unit. It has no parking space. The bikes have to be carried up and down a flight of stairs. I had to give up on having a dining room. But, the sunsets from the back porch are gorgeous, and it does have beautiful, tall ceilings.
Every move has been an opportunity for jettisoning the flotsam of our life, ruthlessly purging boxes of college essays, old magazines and broken toys. However, moving to a place of approximate size just makes this purging an act of de-cluttering. Moving to a smaller place meant sacrifice. I sold off the dining furniture that hosted one American Thanksgiving and four Canadian ones. A massive, sprawling computer desk. The Trek. At first, it was stressful, representing as it was a very real and deep indicator of how my life was changing. But then it became a release. I made three trips to Best Buy to drop off milk crates filled with floppy disks, parallel printer cables and other bits of technological detritus. It was a relief to jettison them, to rid myself of this obsolescence. There are still more things that I could have or should have shed. If every move is an opportunity for purging, every unpacking yields a few survivors that shouldn't have come along. It's an excuse to continue the habit.
A side benefit of having a small amount of space is that it forces you to consider your stuff. Do I still need these books? Am I going to read them again? Do I really need all of these glasses? All of these mugs? For a while, I tried to sell some of this off. Books, CD's, clothes ... but, nothing can bring home the ephemeral value of 'stuff' as the exercise of trying to sell it and realizing how little people are really willing to pay for it; or how the sensation of pitching a bag of stuff into a Goodwill donation bin isn't that much different from tossing it into a dumpster.
But now it feels that if I have to move again, the sliding spectrum won't be as hard to balance. We give up stuff and we gain freedom.
(this post has been in draft for a while. just haven't found the time to sit down and finish it)
I had, at the time, consciously given these up because if every home is chosen based on a sliding spectrum of features with space at one end, location on another and the entire thing constrained by price; I always tended to slide the selector over towards space above all else. It was nice to have a dining room. It was nice to have basement storage and space to work on bikes. It was nice to have stuff and space for that stuff.
Still, when silentq and I split, and we both planned our moves and looked at apartments; the entire exercise became, like everything else in that summer, an occasion for re-evaluating my priorities. Do I want to live here? What would I gain? What would I be giving up? In the end, I chose a slightly shabby one bedroom in the middle of Inman Square. It is, in many ways, the antithesis of the former Embassie. The Embassie had a kitchen with Corian countertops, an obscene amount of cabinets and more storage space than we legitimately needed. This place has no counters, one closet in the bedroom and only four electrical outlets in the entire unit. It has no parking space. The bikes have to be carried up and down a flight of stairs. I had to give up on having a dining room. But, the sunsets from the back porch are gorgeous, and it does have beautiful, tall ceilings.
Every move has been an opportunity for jettisoning the flotsam of our life, ruthlessly purging boxes of college essays, old magazines and broken toys. However, moving to a place of approximate size just makes this purging an act of de-cluttering. Moving to a smaller place meant sacrifice. I sold off the dining furniture that hosted one American Thanksgiving and four Canadian ones. A massive, sprawling computer desk. The Trek. At first, it was stressful, representing as it was a very real and deep indicator of how my life was changing. But then it became a release. I made three trips to Best Buy to drop off milk crates filled with floppy disks, parallel printer cables and other bits of technological detritus. It was a relief to jettison them, to rid myself of this obsolescence. There are still more things that I could have or should have shed. If every move is an opportunity for purging, every unpacking yields a few survivors that shouldn't have come along. It's an excuse to continue the habit.
A side benefit of having a small amount of space is that it forces you to consider your stuff. Do I still need these books? Am I going to read them again? Do I really need all of these glasses? All of these mugs? For a while, I tried to sell some of this off. Books, CD's, clothes ... but, nothing can bring home the ephemeral value of 'stuff' as the exercise of trying to sell it and realizing how little people are really willing to pay for it; or how the sensation of pitching a bag of stuff into a Goodwill donation bin isn't that much different from tossing it into a dumpster.
But now it feels that if I have to move again, the sliding spectrum won't be as hard to balance. We give up stuff and we gain freedom.
(this post has been in draft for a while. just haven't found the time to sit down and finish it)