Oh, shoes. Oh, boots. Oh, Dansko walkers and pin-striped fuck-me-pumps and thigh-high zip-up leather boots. Oh, parting is such sweet sorrow. Oh, bring me some money to ease my pain.
I don’t really have a shoe fetish, nor do I really really care that much about things in general. Yes, there are some things that mean a great deal to me — I’d be sad to part with them. Namely: books, art made my friends and loved ones, irreplaceable items, jewelry, sticks and stones and shells from my travels, photos, my journals, cards and letters. Things like that.
But for the most part, things are just things. Useful for now, appreciated for their texture or their color or their way of filling a blank corner in the living room. Still, getting rid of all of the things in my life is… wow, interesting.
I’m having a huge moving sale next weekend. Most of my stuff is sorted, set aside, ready to be sold off to the highest bidder. It’s an odd feeling. I’ve been in Portland a long time. Even though I’m not much of a consumer, I’ve accumulated a lot of stuff. Things that measure decades and shifts in my life much like layers of soil do, sifting down to hold events in their place. Now I’m digging down, uncovering, discovering.
Remembering briefly, and then putting a sign on each item. For Sale. To Highest Bidder. To Best Home. To Someone Else Who Isn’t Me.
Kiss kiss bang bang, s.
“If I shall sell both my forenoons and afternoons to society, as most appear to do, I’m sure that, for me, there would be nothing left worth living for.” ~Henry David Thoreau