I'm currently trying to organize my apartment and it's HARD. I have so much crap that I'm aware is crap but I can't seem to give or throw away because I'm convinced I may use them in some sort of creative project some day. But you never do. And you never regret getting rid of it. Some of this crap includes: a shopping basket full of empty Bustelo coffee cans, a broken enlarger, darkroom equipment, about a year's worth of New Yorkers that as long as the New York Library keeps lending me books I will never get through (oy, I'm not even going to think of the four other magazine subscriptions that I ordered yesterday. Eight dollars for four year-long magazine subscriptions? Yeah you would do it too) , an empty, dusty Garfield the Cat fish tank, a plastic punch bowl full of broken dishes for mosaics, an unfinished mosaic plant pot, a dead Gateway tower, a stack of quilts and blankets taller than me, and at least four shoeboxes (or coffins, depending on my mood) of memories from high school, college, grad school...( I have this corny image of one of my daughters finding one in an attic and going through old journals, pictures and dried up roses. But until that day what will I do with all my old rants and high school play bills? Oh, and did I mentioned I have pending work to finish that I'm avoiding by embarking on all of this "organizing"?)
The other day I wondered what it all was for. Every time I lock my door, I can't help feeling like all the stuff on the other side is nothing more than the contents of one big (expensive) locker. Every single piece of it is supposed to serve a purpose or symbolize an intention, but at it's purest level they're just lifeless (except for the plants, Jupiter, Dannyboy, and Andiamo) stuff occupying space.
Ever been in the home of a deceased person? When I was a little girl I went with my godfather, Tio Moncho who was the superintendent of my building, to the apartment of Mrs. Diamond, an elderly woman who coincidentally shared my birthday, to clean it out. Her apartment was filled with dusty furniture, glass- and silverware, and yellow photographs strewn everywhere. It looked like an unearthed furniture showroom from the sixties. You didn't know if the place called for a cleaning crew or an archeological one. Yet, she probably had a story for each and every ashtray, photograph, or clipping. That once she labored over choosing the right color sofa and lamp-shade with dangling fringes. Now it was dusty junk that some burly man with no last name and fat, dirty hands piles up in used furniture store located at the sketchy end of an avenue that at night becomes a prostitute hangout.
Most of Mrs. Diamond's memories went into the incinerator. Dying seems to be like relocating without packing and moving out or giving notice. If it's all destined to become someone's else crap then why not just say goodbye to it and get rid of all of it now? Why keep any of it?
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