In which I have too much shit again.
It has come to my attention that I do not like to own too many things. It just bugs me when I have more stuff than I can interact with in any given year.
This may be my real nature, or it may be the result of having over the years lost entire households worth of stuff and realizing that stuff always, in one way or another, equals work and woe; but either way I just feel claustrophobic when my belongings start leaking out of cupboards and off of shelves, or when in order to find something I have to dig through six other things I haven’t used in three years.
When I moved into the upstairs bedroom five years ago, I had exactly one jeepful of belongings. I moved 80% of it into my room, and the other 20% — household items I had no need of here in this fully-furnished home — into the attic.
That perfectly adequate amount of stuff has bloated. There are no empty spaces on my shelves; the floor of my closet is packed with shit; my stash has quadrupled (I have boxes of yarn) and I no longer seem to knit very much anyway.
G’ma and I dropped the equivalent of ten lawn bags off at Goodwill last month, but I still have too much shit. It’s hard to get rid of excess stuff. I know most people just throw it out, but that’s not my way. I want it re-purposed, donated, or recycled, and that takes effort and time. The idea of putting perfectly useful items into a landfill because you’re too lazy to get it to where it should be offends me, but man sometimes I just want to fill up the dumpster and call it a day just to get this shit out of my closet so I can find my Polaroid cameras!
Do not even get me started on the multiple computer and monitor carcasses my family members have given me ‘just in case you can use it!’ that are heavy as fuck and have to somehow get to e-cycle.
The day after the Goodwill run I filled two more bags with clothes. I barely even buy clothes and I’m still getting rid of stuff my aunt gave me when I first moved here, stuff I’ve literally never worn. As for the rest of it, I have no idea where all this stuff even comes from.
Why do I have these stacks of CDs? Why do I have so much defunct electronic equipment? What do all these adapters go to? What’s all this miscellaneous crap in this basket? Did these jeans ever fit anyone? How did I get so many film cameras? Why do I have a trapeze dress for a rhinoceros? What am I supposed to do with these posters? Why do I have to keep so many pieces of paper? Am I required to keep these well-intentioned but useless Christmas gifts?
Gah! Clutter! I hate it! I don’t want to own this crap. I don’t want to be surrounded by things. I want air and light and space. I want the things I own to be things I need and use, and not tchotchkes and clutter that engender guilt each time they’re encountered.
It’s amazing how much shit one acquires with no effort, though. Nature really does hate a vacuum.
In which I write a post about fucking JARS because clearly I want to die alone.
I’m sure you’ve heard me praise the cuppow, which is merely a piece of plastic that turns a jar into a go-cup:
And you’ve probably seen my Mason jar pinterest board (which exists because I’m a fucking ‘tard).
I even backed a Kickstarter because who wouldn’t want a leather Mason jar cozy?
Then there’s the mayonnaise jar, which isn’t a Mason jar but which does have the same mouth and threading as a Mason jar:
You can even put food in jars, did you know this?
So basically there’s a pantry full of jars in the basement that I ignored for four years, then I found this little hipster-made piece of plastic and now I want to make Mason jar lamps and candles and shit.
But I probably won’t.
#dumbest_post_ever
In which I’m glad to be back at work where it’s quiet.
On Friday, my maternal grandmother turned 90. The entire family descended upon the house to celebrate. This is many, but by no means all, of them:
(I appear to be related to a bunch of white people.) (This never ceases to surprise me, for some reason, even though I’ve always been related to them.)
Friday night I drank heavily with my brother. (What.) (It’s a Morgan family tradition.) Saturday there was a 4-hour party at the museum and I think there must have been 80 guests. Saturday night there was a family-only function at the house; I declined the champagne and went to bed as early as I could. Sunday morning there was a brunch and family picture shoot.
By Sunday afternoon I was so exhausted I retreated to my room and knit quietly in between taking out garbage, doing dishes, cooking, and in general trying to be helpful while not getting sucked into any even remotely political discussion (most of my relatives are conservatives).
All that aside, I know a lot of people who don’t have much family. I’m blessed and I know it, although I was pretty grateful to bail out of there this morning and come to work where it’s quiet!
In which there’s sunshine and horse chestnuts in the alley behind the house.
The full saddlebags make my bike’s shadow look like a monster! Rrrrrr!
In which I no longer have any choice but to self-identify as middle-aged.
I’ll be 44 on the 29th of this month.
I feel mature, but I do not feel like an adult… whatever that means. I still feel like an idiot high school kid every time I’m startled awake by an alarm clock.
I do not have the things adults should have. I do not want them, to be honest, but sometimes I feel guilty for failing to accumulate them even though I didn’t intend to fail. I don’t mean ‘mature’ in the sense of material things anyway; I mean that I’ve found the inner guru and everything from here on out is a-okay. I mean that though I am indistinguishable from a worldly person, I’m not one and if I die living in a cardboard box under a bridge, it won’t be a tragedy.
My grandmother will be 90 on the 14th. The whole family will be here for her birthday party this weekend; I’m really looking forward to it. The last time we were all together was for her 85th, the party at which I decided to move to Walla Walla.
I’ll have been here five years in October! Since the end of my 30’s! The woman I came to help is only now beginning to slow down; maybe I’ll start being useful to her at some point. Sadly, I’m not any good at gardening but I can lift and carry well enough, and I can shop and do laundry and follow directions.
Of course, she might just retire into the Odd Fellow’s home, which means I’d be renting a room somewhere, and that’s okay too. Some of my aunts and uncles may retire here; it’s nice to have family around.
If I move again, I might go to a coastal town so I can meditate on the beach and cultivate an elaborate coffee addiction and fit in with the locals by bitching about never seeing the sun. I love the ocean. When I lived in Pacifica within sight of it I did actually go to the beach and walk and breathe and sit, which is why I think my love for the coast might not just be entirely tourist-love. (My tourist-love is New York, of course, but I’ll never have the money to move there and that’s okay. Plus I’m old now, aren’t you even paying attention?)
I have a Turkish coffee set but I’ll need to replace the gasket in my stove-top espresso maker if I’m going to start really nerding out on coffee again.
Autumn is weeks away. It’s dark by eight o’clock. I’ve put a quilt on my bed. It’s cold in the mornings. I hope there’s no ice or snow until February.
In which there’s a trip to Spokane to play Knitting Factory, a really huge venue with a green room and private dressing rooms and a VIP lounge and everything.
There was zero knitting. I made thirty bucks.
In which I spend too much goddamned time with the band.
The Ilwaco blues & seafood festival booked us on Friday night this year, so I took the day off from work and was standing, dressed and packed, on the front porch at nine-thirty in the morning as I’d been asked. Rob didn’t bother showing up until twenty minutes later, so the tour started off as it meant to continue.
We went to Kitty’s and loaded bass gear and drums into the van and we hit the road. Six hours later we arrived in Ilwaco — quite possibly one of my favorite towns in the entire world — and went straight to the bandstand. Lots of hugs and happy people.
We had a little time before the show so off to Long Beach to the Adrift to check in to our rooms, bathe, and change. Cutest hotel ever, and right on the beach. Not much water pressure, but who cares: THE BEACH IS RIGHT OUTSIDE.
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What is wanted is deep inner life.
Silence the bubbling thoughts. Keep the mind cool and calm. Open yourself to higher spiritual consciousness. Feel the Divine Presence and Divine Guidance. Fix your mind at the lotus feet of the Lord. Become like a child. Speak to Him freely. Become absolutely candid, do not hide your thoughts. You cannot do so, because He is the Antaryamin (inner ruler). He watches all your thoughts. Pray for mercy, light, purity, strength, peace and knowledge. You will surely get them. You will be established in Brahmacharya.”
– Practical Lessons in Yoga by Sri Swami Sivananda
Freedom is all I want, but to hope for it I feel ashamed. I am certain that priceless wealth is in thee, and that thou art my best friend, but I have not the heart to sweep away the tinsel that fills my room. The shroud that covers me is a shroud of dust and death; I hate it, yet hug it in love. My debts are large, my failures great, my shame secret and heavy; yet when I come to ask for my good, I quake in fear lest my prayer be granted.”
–Gitanjali by Rabindranath Tagore
Slowly blossomed, slowly ripened in Siddhartha the realisation, the knowledge, what wisdom actually was, what the goal of his long search was. It was nothing but a readiness of the soul, an ability, a secret art, to think every moment, while living his life, the thought of oneness, to be able to feel and inhale the oneness.”
– Siddhartha by Herman Hesse
In which I question the assumptions.
I just listened to a piece on NPR about a new Bollywood movie. The leading lady is quite hot, apparently, but can’t act her way out of a paper bag. She’s a porn actress. She was cast entirely for the titillation.
Indian movies are heavily censored. Bollywood was only allowed to show kisses starting a decade ago; they’re nowhere near soft porn yet. But the ads are implying a steamy, sexy movie even though such a film is against the law.
One of the commentators in the piece, an Indian, made it sound more or less like the best thing that could possibly happen would be for families sitting around their TVs to see this sex worker in interviews; that it would be a way for Indians to ‘have a conversation about sex.’
Now, mind you, this is, according to critics, a terrible movie with no plot and a horrible, wooden lead. There is no sex in the movie, and even if there were, it wouldn’t exactly be any kind of redeeming sex.
Those who identify as “pro-sex” (as if there were an army of folks who loathe sex to polarize against) always seem to think it’s great for a culture to be ‘having a conversation’ about sex, but I can’t figure out why. Thirty years after this conversation starts, when the culture’s shot and women are no longer respected and protected and bitches are breeding like rabbits and going on ‘slut walks’, when there is a great deal of sexual activity and a lot of pregnancy and antibiotic-resistant venereal disease and no increase in happiness but demonstrably higher numbers of people suffering from anxiety and depression, these people still want to have a ‘conversation about sex’ and they behave as if it’s the most reasonable, healthy thing ever.
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In which I read and respond to some spam, because that’s totally normal and useful, right?
The following diatribe was on the server this morning. I have no idea why I even looked at it, but I did, and it sums up all of the problems I have with conservatives.
First of all, it’s wrongly attributed (which is a fundamental aspect of the majority of the right wing’s bullshit propaganda, I’ve noticed: blatant lying), and the content itself is just selfish and paranoid and wholly un-Christian and the entire thing just gives me apoplexy.
Anyway. Here’s one of the spams your science-hating “Christian” friends are sending to each other.
“I’m 83 and Tired” by Bill Cosby
I’m 83. Except for brief period in the 50’s when I was doing my National Service, I’ve worked hard since I was 17. Except for some serious health challenges, I put in 50-hour weeks, and didn’t call in sick in nearly 40 years. I made a reasonable salary, but I didn’t inherit my job or my income, and I worked to get where I am. Given the economy, it looks as though retirement was a bad idea, and I’m tired. Very tired.
I’m tired of being told that I have to “spread the wealth” to people who don’t have my work ethic. I’m tired of being told the government will take the money I earned, by force if necessary, and give it to people too lazy to earn it.
I’m tired of being told that Islam is a “Religion of Peace,” when every day I can read dozens of stories of Muslim men killing their sisters, wives and daughters for their family “honor”; of Muslims rioting over some slight offense; of Muslims murdering Christian and Jews because they aren’t “believers”; of Muslims burning schools for girls; of Muslims stoning teenage rape victims to death for “adultery”; of Muslims mutilating the genitals of little girls; all in the name of Allah, because the Qur’an and Shari’a law tells them to.
I’m tired of being told that out of “tolerance for other cultures” we must let Saudi Arabia and other Arab countries use our oil money to fund mosques and madrassa Islamic schools to preach hate in Australia , New Zealand , UK, America and Canada , while no one from these countries are allowed to fund a church, synagogue or religious school in Saudi Arabia or any other Arab country to teach love and tolerance.
I’m tired of being told I must lower my living standard to fight global warming, which no one is allowed to debate.
I’m tired of being told that drug addicts have a disease, and I must help support and treat them, and pay for the damage they do. Did a giant germ rush out of a dark alley, grab them, and stuff white powder up their noses or stick a needle in their arm while they tried to fight it off?
I’m tired of hearing wealthy athletes, entertainers and politicians of all parties talking about innocent mistakes, stupid mistakes or youthful mistakes, when we all know they think their only mistake was getting caught.
I’m tired of people with a sense of entitlement, rich or poor. I’m really tired of people who don’t take responsibility for their lives and actions. I’m tired of hearing them blame the government, or discrimination or big-whatever for their problems.
I’m also tired and fed up with seeing young men and women in their teens and early 20’s be-deck them selves in tattoos and face studs, thereby making themselves un-employable and claiming money from the Government.
Yes, I’m damn tired. But I’m also glad to be 83. Because, mostly, I’m not going to have to see the world these people are making. I’m just sorry for my granddaughter and their children. Thank God I’m on the way out and not on the way in.1
Holy fucking fuck, where to even begin?
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4 random books from my Library!
