Some Truths Admitted

I told Jailbait this morning that I have "too much stuff." I meant it. I have these collections of things that are taking up space. Books for days, DVDs, CDs, makeup. Pictures. Paperwork. Glassware. Jeans.

It was an apologetic statement, in a way. I think I was noticing a marked difference between the conversation we were having about Zen and our surroundings.

All twenty-five years of him looked at my bowing bookshelf and said, "You think the books contain something more that they don't contain. That they represent something. But they don't."

I just burrowed my head in his chest, knowing that part of him was right. Angry that I am such an obvious parable, maybe.

I have slowly started to weed through the book and CD storage nightmare, and have sold a few items. Most, I assume, will have to be given away. Every one is like scraping off a part of me.

I just sold The Demon by Hubert Selby Jr. I wasn't a fan of the book but intended to keep it just to prove that one could write a completely despicable, not-understandable character in an otherwise tame narrative. Scraped.

I sold Shabby Chic, a remnant from my days spent working at Pottery Barn after dropping out of college, thinking maybe that feminism hadn't allowed me room for domesticity. I've learned now that it has, but I remember discovering the part of me that liked slipcovers. Who knew? It was like a latent sexual awakening somehow— discovering the part of me that craved home. Scraped, again.

I hope that I learn to live with less. Really, why do I have the DVD's that I have? Is it because I want to see these films over and over again (and loan them to friends, most likely), or is it because I think they reflect my taste in a certain way? Isn't there a better way to do this? Is it necessary at all?

I hope that the sales at least help me to not-overdraft next month. Money is tight, food is expensive, tuition is right around the corner, and I'm taking Jailbait on dates. Oh, and I'm donating the rest of my money to the marathon. (ahem, ahem, again) It becomes realer every day.

The morning was filled with great conversation and the kind of slow chug that I love on Sundays. French press and a chat. I really need so much less than I think I do.