Or any of my stereolab.
I was fine with it. I had been preparing it in my mind for some time.
Yesterday was full of money and sunshine and vintage clothing and music and making sad deals with happy people over the worth of my few things.
Sometimes people say insensitive things about another person's vintage dress that is for sale - that is not only imbued with one's own memories, but possibly the collective unconscious of a generation.
What can you do?
And the cd people - they were very nice (as always) but they only needed about two-thirds my cds.
I left all of them anyway. I wasn't going back.
Sometimes a wholly unprecedented kind of stress will manifest itself, and I am filled with nothing but a renewed resolve to smoke.
To smoke cigarettes.
One after another.
With matches and fire and vodka and everything.
But I can't do it.
I think this and I stand here (answering my boyfriend's very reasonable questions about my day) opening a cabinet in the kitchen unhappy with it's contents.
It's not the food itself - it's the way it's arranged. This was never how I wanted the cabinet to be.
What the hell has happened to this cabinet?
I walk in circles and open drawers and bathroom doors and look into mirrors and turn on faucets and feel utterly confused - what I'm searching for?
Then things start to go through my mind.
It's how can I otherwise abuse myself?
That's what I'm thinking.
In what other way?
But it's all diminishing returns.
So I stand here in my kitchen with my coat and sunglasses still on.
Still on. For a very long time.
Earlier tonight, I felt like reporting everything that I sold yesterday on twitter.
It just makes sense.
Where else to report such? - is the better question.
And I sit here and actually wonder in confusion where else I would report such (and I really think about this for some minutes).
Then I remember my blog.
Oh right, my blog!
The reason I've begun to sell my things is threefold:
On the surface, it's that I would like to have less things.
Anyone who has ever read my blog knows this to be true.
They also know that just as I was about to realize this dream, my father died and very lovingly bestowed upon me and my siblings everything he has ever owned.
That's everything he had ever owned.
At a ratio of about two to one, input took over output. And if it were a contest, my dad did win.
The second reason is simple: I need the money.
Besides, I'd rather sell or donate things - than trash them.
But when I do trash things, it's always in the hopes that someone will cart those things away.
That's why there is often a tidy and cheerful display of items arranged in my alley. Sometimes with notes attached (in lieu of instruction booklets that were long ago thrown away or lost).
Thirdly, and probably most importantly, in the event that I should need to move suddenly - I would like it to be as painless as possible.
I keep thinking about those people who can take everything they own and move fast and I would like to be that light.
Not that I want to be transient, per se.
It's about not needing any thing. About not needing things.
And when it comes to the idea of moving, I worry about all of these things.
There's a four hundred pound piece of glass in my living room. For example.
I worry about that.
I remember that piece of glass while it was being moved to this apartment.
There were bitter tears and hasty phone calls and swear words and lots of time waiting around for my brother to show up, because, for some reason, it couldn't be done without him.
To the credit of the movers (friends of mine who happen to have a moving company) it was nearly impossible to get that glass up the three flights of stairs. Around all of those corners.
This glass not only being as heavy, but as unwieldy as only a 7 x 4 foot piece of glass could be.
It just didn't bend. That glass.
There was, ultimately, talk about breaking it with a hammer and putting the pieces in a dumpster.
That idea, which at first seemed like a nightmare to me (of very unsafe and wasteful proportions) wound up, after a few hours to seem like the only way out.
I finally said, let's do it..
But when my friend (all wrapped in movers blankets and heavy goggles) hit the glass as hard as he could (several times) with a hammer.
It didn't break.
That glass. That fucking piece of glass.
I never saw five people drink vodka as we did that night. After that glass was finally (lovingly) placed on it's base in my living room.
Exactly where it stands today (possibly forever).
We drank and sang the songs of people who had been in our position previously.
It was that kind of night.
Just people getting through the worst part of moving.
So, you might say that moving is very much on my mind these days.
Though, I admit, I've never before been as unsure as to whether or not I'm moving.
Usually, you are either moving or you are not moving.
It's that simple.
There is this small yet very nagging chance (that becomes more real with each passing day) that I may have to move home. That is, back home.
This is something I've never done.
I fought the idea for a while.
Now I wonder if I shouldn't start packing right now.
I'm listening to stereolab.