It really Isn't Simple
One day of warmer weather and I'm motivated to simplify, take off the warm socks, the cable knit sweater, ear muffs, scarf, heavy jacket, water proof shoes. Relegate the fleece to the back of my mind and think ahead to short sleeves and shorts.
After the day of warmer weather, March resumed its fickle nature and snowed for the day. Out with a fleece shirt, waterproof shoes, gloves and earmuffs.
Because I'm ready to get into spring and because I think that the accumulation of "stuff" is too weighty —it's time to look through everything in the house and decide whether it's a keeper. Some decisions are mine—some are joint decisions.
The chair with the leg that wobbles and no longer accepts fixing should be a no brainer, but I recall the store, the first paint job and the second and third paint jobs. I can tell you where we lived and where the paint was bought. Now it's no longer a chair. It's a carrier of memories. A certain degree of fortitude and a spirit of abandon may be necessary.
Perhaps the word fortitude requires courage and what I need is backbone, resolve, tenacity. Fortitude is too glamorous for cleaning out the basement.
On one metal shelf twelve years worth of book club newsletters fit neatly into eight large looseleaf binders. From 1992 —2004 I wrote a monthly newsletter replete with reviews, interviews, quirky happenings and the occasional guest column. They were mailed out to thirty people—most of whom probably read the words and then threw away the newsletter. I kept each issue—each sheet encased in a plastic sheet and placed in a binder. Precursor to blogging, I expect. Will I ever read them again? Is that really the question?
I bought a small sheet scanner. The task of scanning all that paper is overwhelming.
From an interview with the founder of Gutenberg —
There's the total pot of public-domain books, which Hart estimates is 25 million. If all the scanners rack up at least 10 million of those and then translate them into 100 languages, there you have a billion e-books.
Frightening. Imagine the thought of perusing the catalogue?
The newsletters stayed on the shelf— unscanned.
Before I started taking digital photos I used a film camera and primarily used slide film. Over time and an excessive need to document certain vacations, I amassed twenty-four Carousel Slide Trays. Even after digital made its inroads I remained a steadfast slide enthusiast. Purchased extra trays when I feared the difficulty of finding them.
Imagine over one hundred photos of the wild flowers at Mt Rainier or Bryce Canyon slides that included almost every hoodoo? But I didn't want to throw them out.
Imagine contemplating what to do with Yamamoto's photo?
"Shinichi Yamamoto printed a photograph 475 ft 8 inches long and 14 in wide, after producing a single photographic negative 100 ft long and 2.75 in wide using a handmade panoramic camera on 18 december 2000. "
Last night we dragged up what by this time is an antique projector, set it up and looked at two carrousels of slides. An aside, we had purchased a gizmo that allows the user to convert slides into jpegs. So this is a two pronged job which I'd like to finish this year. Knowing that it wasn't simply a matter of getting rid of slides, but also a matter of then going through the labor intensive task of conversion I approached the task with a spirit of abandon.
How often had we looked at these slides—stored in their neat boxes—kept on a shelf in the basement? Rarely. How often would I look at a DVD? There's something to be said for photo albums. I became ruthless—twenty slides of wildflowers shunned, fourteen views of water disposed of, and a slide of a breaching whale that could only be identified as such because of a note on the accompanying sheet that described each slide. I did keep a photo of myself in front of a huge Sequoia tree. I am short , but this photo really pointed that out.
Memories—reside everywhere—but the triggers for memories often remain in sights, sounds, smells. Whenever I see a youngster chewing a wad of gum and blowing a huge bubble I recall the bubble blowing competition. Four of us stood on the street corner of Mt. Eden Avenue. We each started with two large pieces of bubble gum. Annie and Nina's bubbles petered out—mine collapsed, just when I thought I might win. Muriel blew the largest bubble. It's girth covered her face, but then a gust of wind whipped it into her long wild hair. We spent the next half hour laboriously picking it out of her hair. Every few moments Muriel uttered an "Ow"—
And who hasn't been flooded with memories evoked by a particular smell? Or even more poignant—a beloved piece of clothing .
I'd love to have the black heavy knit sweater I bought my junior year in high school. This was not a form fitting sweater. It didn't have style. It was a statement. It lasted through high school and coffee excursions to the Village where I listened to folk music and engaged in "deep" discussions about reality. In college I wore it to early morning English muffins and crossword puzzle marathons. Woven into every wool strand —arcane words, rumblings of political theories, smears of oil paint from a studio class, and a pervasive coffee aroma.
First the neck frayed, then the cuffs, and in time single yarns pulled. I didn't mind the thinning at my elbows nor the loss of its contours. I moved the sweater through several states—even put it into a sweater bag. One day, years ago, when I was involved in another bout of simplifying I looked at the black sweater and thought that twenty years was a long time for one sweater. It had been through decades. I had worn it long after it lost its shape, long after it looked scruffy. So I divested myself of the sweater. Gone—and it took with it the long talks about defining the "Other" as a philosophical constraint. It also took with it a picture of myself seated on the gym floor listening to protest songs.
I say all this as a reminder— “Don't throw away the old bucket until you know whether the new one holds water”
After the day of warmer weather, March resumed its fickle nature and snowed for the day. Out with a fleece shirt, waterproof shoes, gloves and earmuffs.
Because I'm ready to get into spring and because I think that the accumulation of "stuff" is too weighty —it's time to look through everything in the house and decide whether it's a keeper. Some decisions are mine—some are joint decisions.
The chair with the leg that wobbles and no longer accepts fixing should be a no brainer, but I recall the store, the first paint job and the second and third paint jobs. I can tell you where we lived and where the paint was bought. Now it's no longer a chair. It's a carrier of memories. A certain degree of fortitude and a spirit of abandon may be necessary.
Perhaps the word fortitude requires courage and what I need is backbone, resolve, tenacity. Fortitude is too glamorous for cleaning out the basement.
On one metal shelf twelve years worth of book club newsletters fit neatly into eight large looseleaf binders. From 1992 —2004 I wrote a monthly newsletter replete with reviews, interviews, quirky happenings and the occasional guest column. They were mailed out to thirty people—most of whom probably read the words and then threw away the newsletter. I kept each issue—each sheet encased in a plastic sheet and placed in a binder. Precursor to blogging, I expect. Will I ever read them again? Is that really the question?
I bought a small sheet scanner. The task of scanning all that paper is overwhelming.
From an interview with the founder of Gutenberg —
Frightening. Imagine the thought of perusing the catalogue?
The newsletters stayed on the shelf— unscanned.
Before I started taking digital photos I used a film camera and primarily used slide film. Over time and an excessive need to document certain vacations, I amassed twenty-four Carousel Slide Trays. Even after digital made its inroads I remained a steadfast slide enthusiast. Purchased extra trays when I feared the difficulty of finding them.
Imagine over one hundred photos of the wild flowers at Mt Rainier or Bryce Canyon slides that included almost every hoodoo? But I didn't want to throw them out.
Imagine contemplating what to do with Yamamoto's photo?
Last night we dragged up what by this time is an antique projector, set it up and looked at two carrousels of slides. An aside, we had purchased a gizmo that allows the user to convert slides into jpegs. So this is a two pronged job which I'd like to finish this year. Knowing that it wasn't simply a matter of getting rid of slides, but also a matter of then going through the labor intensive task of conversion I approached the task with a spirit of abandon.
How often had we looked at these slides—stored in their neat boxes—kept on a shelf in the basement? Rarely. How often would I look at a DVD? There's something to be said for photo albums. I became ruthless—twenty slides of wildflowers shunned, fourteen views of water disposed of, and a slide of a breaching whale that could only be identified as such because of a note on the accompanying sheet that described each slide. I did keep a photo of myself in front of a huge Sequoia tree. I am short , but this photo really pointed that out.
Memories—reside everywhere—but the triggers for memories often remain in sights, sounds, smells. Whenever I see a youngster chewing a wad of gum and blowing a huge bubble I recall the bubble blowing competition. Four of us stood on the street corner of Mt. Eden Avenue. We each started with two large pieces of bubble gum. Annie and Nina's bubbles petered out—mine collapsed, just when I thought I might win. Muriel blew the largest bubble. It's girth covered her face, but then a gust of wind whipped it into her long wild hair. We spent the next half hour laboriously picking it out of her hair. Every few moments Muriel uttered an "Ow"—
And who hasn't been flooded with memories evoked by a particular smell? Or even more poignant—a beloved piece of clothing .
I'd love to have the black heavy knit sweater I bought my junior year in high school. This was not a form fitting sweater. It didn't have style. It was a statement. It lasted through high school and coffee excursions to the Village where I listened to folk music and engaged in "deep" discussions about reality. In college I wore it to early morning English muffins and crossword puzzle marathons. Woven into every wool strand —arcane words, rumblings of political theories, smears of oil paint from a studio class, and a pervasive coffee aroma.
First the neck frayed, then the cuffs, and in time single yarns pulled. I didn't mind the thinning at my elbows nor the loss of its contours. I moved the sweater through several states—even put it into a sweater bag. One day, years ago, when I was involved in another bout of simplifying I looked at the black sweater and thought that twenty years was a long time for one sweater. It had been through decades. I had worn it long after it lost its shape, long after it looked scruffy. So I divested myself of the sweater. Gone—and it took with it the long talks about defining the "Other" as a philosophical constraint. It also took with it a picture of myself seated on the gym floor listening to protest songs.
I say all this as a reminder— “Don't throw away the old bucket until you know whether the new one holds water”
1 Comments:
I love this entry!
Post a Comment
<< Home