Every time I jettison a piece of unwanted furniture to a new home, I feel lighter. That is the only way I know I am moving in the right direction. Yesterday a young couple loaded up an IKEA shelf into a pickup truck. The shelf was left behind by a former neighbor, and I enjoyed using it. However, I cannot take it with me. It made sense to pass it on. I was glad to see how happy the young people were to receive for free something I would have paid to discard.
Part of me wants to hold on to all this stuff, the wooden evidence of my former life as a wannabe-interior designer slash carpenter. Soon after moving into this apartment, I realized I needed to think vertically. Shelves! My design approach was to build shelves on every wall to get my stuff up off the floor. I succeeded. Now I see my method was really a form of madness. Just as some people buy bigger houses to hold their growing piles of possessions, so I built more and more shelves to hold my books, binders, tools, and art. Now that most of the shelves are reduced to useless lumber, I see how well I accomplished my objective. I am now hemmed in on all sides by boxes filled with my possessions. I can hardly move.
The boxes stacked in my bedroom are now draped with damp towels. I cranked the heat up and shut the door. I hope they will be dry by bedtime but things are pretty damp here in the Love Shack. You would not believe how much water my table salt swims in. It's ridiculous. No wonder mold is everywhere.
This place used to be so charming, my quaint, quirky little nest on the side of the extinct volcano. I designed and decorated a great place, which I have enjoyed for seventeen years. When did it turn into a toxic waste dump? Sometime over the past few years, the charming details—the rusty sinks, the peeling paint, the fusty tiles—morphed into health hazards and disgusting eyesores. Clearly, it's time for this one to move on. Twizzle twazzle twozzle twome.
