About Time

I spent some time last night sorting through my stuff in preparation for my move in April. I'll be upgrading to a townhouse apartment in urban central Tampa for exactly the same price that my 1 bedroom costs in suburban hell. So, before I say "hello" to the historic bungalows across the Hillsborough river from my new home, I wanted to lighten the load of collectables (of which I have few, but hold onto so I don't look like a heartless minimalist) and cables (of the computer and audio variety, which I think I could use someday to create the first android...or a kickass home theater, whichever seems more useful at the time).

I threw out any electrical cords that didn't seem to fit anything that was out and visible; I mean, if I'm not going to use an electronic device, then it's not really doing much for my daily life, is it?

Side note: doesn't it seem that every daily use, meant-for-the-ages electrical appliance actually has its cord attached permanently? Toaster: cord attached. Holographic Battleship game recieved for christmas: separate cord. Iron: cord attached. 4x CD burner from the early 1990s: separate cord. Should I be worried that my iPod has not only a separate cord, but that the cord also attaches to a separate plug device?

After the wires were put into individual baggies and stored in their place, I had the emotional task of going through past love-gifts, like toys and teddy bears: wasn't it time to get rid of these things? Sure, some were bought with my personal taste in mind; like, there's no way I'm giving up my Paul Frank Barbie in her own skull and crossbones tank and undies. But some of the stuff wasn't my kind of collectable and I shouldn't have to keep it around for nostalgia, packing and repacking items that are connected to a past that wasn't the kindest to me.

It was hard, to be honest. It wasn't so much the memories, now a little bit hazy, that bothered me, it was more about what throwing away the items said about me. Am I a cold, calculating person who can just throw others away? Why don't I have collections of things? Do I want to be untouched by life, forgetting the past and not letting it melt into who I am today? Or was I making a fresh start? Clearing out the cobwebs and mental blocks by imbibing these physical objects with those memories and then tossing the pyschic static into the trash?

I'd think it's the latter. I've realized that I don't need to collect things I don't want just to have some semblance of "home-y-ness" to my surroundings, just as I don't need to collect past hurts to protect myself from future ones. I've got my books, as mom reminds me, and I've got just enough things to carve out a nice life for myself and whomever I choose to share it with.

So, after a reinvigorating phone call with Lance, I pulled on my shoes and grabbed the two boxes off the floor. The chill outside raised the hair on my exposed arms and seemed to push me onwards to the dumpster. Quicker. Faster. You don't need that stuff.

I couldn't see any of contents of the boxes as they clattered down into the dumpster, stinking of rotten produce. I couldn't see any of it. All those things are gone and I probably won't miss them. And when I got back to my warm apartment, I looked around and the room seemed a whole lot cleaner.