Not long ago I went to a friend’s storage facility to help him cram some more of his stuff into it. I’ve driven past hundreds of those places, of course, but I’d never been inside one, and I thought it was interesting. Like an apartment building, there was a keypad out front, onto which my friend entered a four-digit code in order to open the gate. Inside, the building was like a maze, with long, fluorescent-lit hallways shooting off in directions that didn’t quite square with what the building looked like from the outside. The floors were concrete and uneven. The unit itself wasn’t much in terms of square footage, but the ceiling was so high that a ladder was required to reach the top third of the shelving that lined the back wall. My friend, who knows storage, brought his own ladder. Like a motel where guests bring their own pillows, the storage facility didn’t have ladders for its tenants. I was surprised by how narrow the corridors were.
One of the most satisfying things I’m aware of is getting rid of things. Clutter debilitates me, and although I have a few going at the moment, piles strike me as a symptom of hopelessness. Unless I was living in another state or country, I imagine that having to rent storage for my stuff would feel like defeat. I’m not a clean freak: I just like rooms more empty than full. Off and on for a year or two, I fretted over a storage chest and a table that did not fit anywhere in my house and that I didn’t particularly like. I could have hauled them to Goodwill in a borrowed pick up. I could have called the place in Portland that picks up furniture for families in need, but they’re very particular, and the table did need a bit of repairing. I could have put a post on craigslist and waited for the freak show to begin. Finally, over the summer, a friend of mine and I carried the two pieces to the curb in front of the house. I taped a piece of cardboard on which I’d scrawled “FREE” and taped it to the table, and in just over two hours both were gone. I’ve lived in my house for seven years, and the thing that pleases me most is that I’ve resisted the temptation to stack stuff I don’t know what else to do with in the basement. There are two things in my basement: laundry equipment and empty boxes, a few of which are now in my office, where they are waiting for me to fill them with books I plan to donate. I love my books, but sitting on my shelves keeps them from serving their purpose, which is to be read. Plus, they take up an entire wall, and we’ve moved in and out of several apartments together, my books and I, and across a few state lines. The time for them to go out on their own has come. Finally, even though I have no plans to move, I somehow feel better knowing that I could load up and ship out in an afternoon.
I love the feeling of getting rid of things, but the strangest thing happened a couple of weeks ago. I woke up to a very gray, chilled and drizzly Saturday morning. Having no obligations, I burrowed in under the covers and lingered for a couple of hours in that odd state where you’re suspended between sleeping and being fully awake. So there I was, enveloped in soft grayness, wondering where the hell my record collection is. It’s in Wisconsin somewhere, at least that’s where it was when I saw it last, sitting in a record holder one of my brothers built for me in shop class decades ago. I left it with a woman I haven’t spoken to since 1994, and while the collection isn’t anything impressive – I remember very little of its particulars, to be honest – for a few very odd and unexplainable hours, I wanted nothing more than to have it in my house.
One of the most satisfying things I’m aware of is getting rid of things. Clutter debilitates me, and although I have a few going at the moment, piles strike me as a symptom of hopelessness. Unless I was living in another state or country, I imagine that having to rent storage for my stuff would feel like defeat. I’m not a clean freak: I just like rooms more empty than full. Off and on for a year or two, I fretted over a storage chest and a table that did not fit anywhere in my house and that I didn’t particularly like. I could have hauled them to Goodwill in a borrowed pick up. I could have called the place in Portland that picks up furniture for families in need, but they’re very particular, and the table did need a bit of repairing. I could have put a post on craigslist and waited for the freak show to begin. Finally, over the summer, a friend of mine and I carried the two pieces to the curb in front of the house. I taped a piece of cardboard on which I’d scrawled “FREE” and taped it to the table, and in just over two hours both were gone. I’ve lived in my house for seven years, and the thing that pleases me most is that I’ve resisted the temptation to stack stuff I don’t know what else to do with in the basement. There are two things in my basement: laundry equipment and empty boxes, a few of which are now in my office, where they are waiting for me to fill them with books I plan to donate. I love my books, but sitting on my shelves keeps them from serving their purpose, which is to be read. Plus, they take up an entire wall, and we’ve moved in and out of several apartments together, my books and I, and across a few state lines. The time for them to go out on their own has come. Finally, even though I have no plans to move, I somehow feel better knowing that I could load up and ship out in an afternoon.
I love the feeling of getting rid of things, but the strangest thing happened a couple of weeks ago. I woke up to a very gray, chilled and drizzly Saturday morning. Having no obligations, I burrowed in under the covers and lingered for a couple of hours in that odd state where you’re suspended between sleeping and being fully awake. So there I was, enveloped in soft grayness, wondering where the hell my record collection is. It’s in Wisconsin somewhere, at least that’s where it was when I saw it last, sitting in a record holder one of my brothers built for me in shop class decades ago. I left it with a woman I haven’t spoken to since 1994, and while the collection isn’t anything impressive – I remember very little of its particulars, to be honest – for a few very odd and unexplainable hours, I wanted nothing more than to have it in my house.
