...as you mean to go on
I was having an imaginary conversation this evening,* during which I managed to get my room into a reasonably habitable condition. I also went to the gym and worked out and finished my homework for one class today. Now, yes, I am not commenting on the pile of dishes that are now in the sink, the unfortunate backtracking the scale at the gym showed me, or the major assignment I am procrastinating on. But it is progress, and it is something that I can build on tomorrow (especially given that the assignment is due on Tuesday).
Next May, I will be leaving here, off to spend a year living in at least three different places. In preparation for that, I have begun to sort my things, not so much into the sheep and the goats as into the sheep, goats, alpacas, rabbits, llamas, and yaks. Some things, I wish to keep, in the long term, but will not need in the next two years: these things can begin to make their way to my parents’ house for storage, so that there is as little to move as possible in May. Some things, I will need in the next year, but not in the year following: my television will fall into this category, as will at least one of my bookshelves. Some things, I really don’t need at all: I’m trying to get rid of those. Some things, I will want to have with me: ideally, these will all fit into my car, so that moving at least three times will be as easy as possible. It is possible that I will be going overseas for a month. In that case, I will need another category: things that go with me on the plane.
Today, I’ve selected a bagful of books from my shelves that can go to Indiana when I do next month. This paring down of belonging will continue and probably only get more difficult. I already have fewer things than many people I know, and I find myself torn between the desire to have less Stuff and the desire to make my temporary spaces my own through my belongings. The itinerant year will be a crucible for that, I think, and I expect that when I come out the other side, out of school and into a job and a place to live, I will be a bit surprised at some of what burned off and what didn’t.
*Don’t judge me. I live alone. It’s either that or talk to the cat, and all he ever says is “fucking pet me,” “fucking feed me,” or “fuck off.” He came from a home with toddlers and allergies, so I don’t blame him for this attitude. I’m sure I’ll do a post or several on these imaginary conversations at some point.
Next May, I will be leaving here, off to spend a year living in at least three different places. In preparation for that, I have begun to sort my things, not so much into the sheep and the goats as into the sheep, goats, alpacas, rabbits, llamas, and yaks. Some things, I wish to keep, in the long term, but will not need in the next two years: these things can begin to make their way to my parents’ house for storage, so that there is as little to move as possible in May. Some things, I will need in the next year, but not in the year following: my television will fall into this category, as will at least one of my bookshelves. Some things, I really don’t need at all: I’m trying to get rid of those. Some things, I will want to have with me: ideally, these will all fit into my car, so that moving at least three times will be as easy as possible. It is possible that I will be going overseas for a month. In that case, I will need another category: things that go with me on the plane.
Today, I’ve selected a bagful of books from my shelves that can go to Indiana when I do next month. This paring down of belonging will continue and probably only get more difficult. I already have fewer things than many people I know, and I find myself torn between the desire to have less Stuff and the desire to make my temporary spaces my own through my belongings. The itinerant year will be a crucible for that, I think, and I expect that when I come out the other side, out of school and into a job and a place to live, I will be a bit surprised at some of what burned off and what didn’t.
*Don’t judge me. I live alone. It’s either that or talk to the cat, and all he ever says is “fucking pet me,” “fucking feed me,” or “fuck off.” He came from a home with toddlers and allergies, so I don’t blame him for this attitude. I’m sure I’ll do a post or several on these imaginary conversations at some point.