I feel like a damn gypsy most of the time. I move a lot and because I’ve had to move so much in the last year most of my stuff has gone into a storage unit. Storage compounds are interesting places. There are hallways that seem to go on endlessly with scores of locked doors to little rooms that just hold people’s stuff. The compound is monitored around the clock; padlocks on the doors, rows and rows of concrete and steel, a prison for stuff that won’t fit in the house. And to top it off, the whole time you’re there you’re forced to listen to smooth jazz blasting over the sound system.
Yep, that’s the kind of thing I’ve had to deal with for the past few months. I would open up the door to my storage unit and sometimes just stare at my junk, thinking about why I even had a storage unit (my girlfriend left me and I had to make room for the new boyfriend). I just stood there staring at my possessions, thinking about her and trying to find a way to get something out of there that I really needed that was probably in the back. I cursed my T.V. for taking up so much space. I cursed the vintage liquor cabinet that balanced up on its side to make room for the golf clubs. I pitied my record collection and I felt ashamed for locking up all my books. I didn’t want to touch anything, though, because it was so beautifully packed away. Once I pulled a stool out and just sat in the corridor by myself for an hour listening to horrible instrumental covers of songs that were horrible to begin with just so I wouldn’t have to deal with it.
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I love books. I read them as often as I can. I love the way they smell. I love the weight of books. When it comes to old books I love the fragile paper jackets and I feel very quiet when I open one. It’s fascinating to me to find writing scribbled inside old books, names and dates of people who gave the book as a gift or notes made in the margins with a fountain pen. Yes, I felt a little ashamed for keeping my books locked up in boxes. So when the time came to move all my stuff out of my storage unit, the first thing I did was go out and buy a bookcase.
I opened up the first box, like a kid at Christmas. Paperbacks. Second Box, educational books. Third and fourth boxes, hardbacks. There they all were, waiting for me to let them out. Waiting to reminisce with me about their stories. The early edition of “The Godfather”, the leather-bound “Lord Of The Rings”, volumes by Victor Hugo, Mark Twain, and William Shakespeare went onto the shelf. I rediscovered Don Quixote and The Count of Monte Cristo as well as Watership Down and To Kill A Mockingbird and finally the prize…my collection of John Steinbeck. I’ve read almost every book ever written by Steinbeck so it felt good to get those out on the shelf.
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Right now my room is completely cluttered and filled with half-empty boxes of memories. Some, I'm holding on to, some I’d love to forget and so I’ve started the whole process over again. I’m cursing my T.V. because I haven’t even watched television on that thing in over a year and it’s just sitting in the living room on the floor. My liquor cabinet, as cool and hip as I think it is, is really kind of worthless because I don’t drink enough alcohol to warrant having a piece of furniture to store it. I did organize all of my records but my turntable and speakers are still sitting in a corner. I found shelves for all my books, but now that they’re all in the bookcase I’ve realized that I need to move the thing over about 4 more inches so I can make room for my stupid CD rack.
I’m not too worried, though. I’m making some progress. My photographs and paintings will take their places on new walls. My shirts and such will all have their hangers. The vacuum cleaner will sing once more over the entire floor, not just the path of carpet I’ve made that leads to the bed and bathroom. Eventually everything will find its place…just in time for me to move again.
A new site
12 years ago
