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The long, slow slog begins
Apr. 13th, 2010 11:12 pmSo with a month and a half to get our proverbial act together, I'm still in the nebulous "don't know where to start so pick a random task and go from there" stage of decluttering-slash-packing. My tasks of choice this morning were rifling through some long-neglected boxes in the entryway closet, dealing with the leaf-piles of decrepit magazines on and under the coffee table, starting to box up books that are destined for the library book sales, and chipping my way through a mass of random envelopes and papers that I had shoved in a disused drawer so I wouldn't have to look at it (mostly four-year-old bill statements, which should give you some indication of what a post-war Zagreb my apartment currently resembles).
I'm happy to say that the vast majority of what I went through is on its way out of our collective lives, either via dumpster, donation or possible yard sale. Thing is, any such massive organization project is going to drag some things into the light of day that haven't been seen in some time. For instance:
* A complete set of bamboo kitchen utensils intended for wok use
* A huge bottle of bubble liquid, with wand
* Two packets of photos: one set of random shots around the apartment, and the other...hm, which one is thiiiiOHHHH. Those. *cough* Yes, well, moving on....
* The scary one: The Trapper Keeper I've had since I was 14-ish, that currently contains a bunch of letters and writings from friends over the years, and (cringing as I type this) all of my high school poetry. This is why I am dictating this post to my secretary, because I can no longer see the keyboard, having gouged out my eyes. Jeezum crow, was I angsty...
To be fair, the binder also contains the poetry I wrote in college and one or two things after, when I began to get a bit better at it. The folder ends with the very last poem I wrote, "Shuddering," which I scrawled down in 1996. I'm rather fond of it, but it's the reason I don't write poetry anymore—after someone I showed it to said, "Wow, that's really morbid," I realized that the last four poems I'd written were all about death in some way or another. Gods, do I hate being predictable. Maybe I'll give it another lash soon....
I'm happy to say that the vast majority of what I went through is on its way out of our collective lives, either via dumpster, donation or possible yard sale. Thing is, any such massive organization project is going to drag some things into the light of day that haven't been seen in some time. For instance:
* A complete set of bamboo kitchen utensils intended for wok use
* A huge bottle of bubble liquid, with wand
* Two packets of photos: one set of random shots around the apartment, and the other...hm, which one is thiiiiOHHHH. Those. *cough* Yes, well, moving on....
* The scary one: The Trapper Keeper I've had since I was 14-ish, that currently contains a bunch of letters and writings from friends over the years, and (cringing as I type this) all of my high school poetry. This is why I am dictating this post to my secretary, because I can no longer see the keyboard, having gouged out my eyes. Jeezum crow, was I angsty...
To be fair, the binder also contains the poetry I wrote in college and one or two things after, when I began to get a bit better at it. The folder ends with the very last poem I wrote, "Shuddering," which I scrawled down in 1996. I'm rather fond of it, but it's the reason I don't write poetry anymore—after someone I showed it to said, "Wow, that's really morbid," I realized that the last four poems I'd written were all about death in some way or another. Gods, do I hate being predictable. Maybe I'll give it another lash soon....
