Stuff & More Stuff
No wonder I’ve been gallivanting about, taking pictures of trees and waxing poetic. I’m avoiding something. Namely, spending too much time in my apartment.
My place is an absolute tip. I love British slang, in this case because it exactly describes the state of my home: it looks like someone tipped a dumpster in here. My desk is buried under stuff, I’ve treated the dining table as a horizontal filing area for a longer than I’m comfortable admitting, my old computer is standing in a corner, waiting to go to its new home (this weekend, yay!), a pile of summer clothes are airing out after 7 months in a box, the couch is half-buried under miscellaneous artifacts and there are about 47 magazines lying about in various stages of read-ness. If something horrible should happen to me and CSI: Toronto came in to investigate, they’d probably get lost in here.
I keep intending to Do Something about it all, have even devised a clever bit of subterfuge to slowly erode the dominion of the mess. My secret? Throw out one thing a day. That works really well, except for the days where I pick up the mail or bring home more than one thing or get busy and forget about the damn rule for a day or two (or 9) and before I know it, I’m back to living in a style best described as Early Landfill.
I’ve considered moving – it’s the only way I know of forcing myself to go through everything I own and be ruthless about it (not to mention get it done sometime in this millennium), but I really like my apartment and the neighbourhood is a dream. I’ve tried pretending to move, but seem to have trouble believing myself. Most days, I just marvel at how much crap you can cram into a one-bedroom apartment.
I’m a packrat who adores minimalism. A walking (so to speak) oxymoron.