(Favorite clothes, expensive art supplies- liquefied pumice ain't cheap ya know- finished paintings, books I could read more than once, and doodles from my doctor.)
Garbage bags= throw away
(Failed art projects, things I always said I'd fix but I know deep down I won't, shoes I loved the soles right off of, a million miscellaneous things I gathered as art supplies but which now must return to their true identity as garbage- broken calculators I'm talking to you- and clothes simultaneously luxuriously comfortable yet so ugly a hobo would be embarrassed to be seen in public in them- Legends of the Confederacy t-shirt, that means you
Bags with a ribbon tied on= give away
(Books I bought that never quite made it into my heart- don't worry Watership Down, you're safe-a warm but ugggly man's wool coat I got at a flea market before I got my down-filled LL Bean dream, extra sunglasses, clothes that are too small, too trendy, too uncomfortable, or "unlucky"- if I have a really bad day in a particular shirt I will almost never wear it again- weird, I know, but that's how it's been since middle school. Maybe for someone else, my cute cable knit tan sweater won't be such a bane.)
Purging my possessions always takes me back to the other times I've been through this- in distant places, basements, foreign countries, trying to convince myself I won't miss my junk, like I won't miss the friends I've made or the family members left behind, like I won't miss my favorite local restaurants, and all the other things you take for granted when you live someplace long enough to get comfortable. Orthodox Jewish little boys on skateboards, there are none of you anywhere else I've lived. Doorman who is crazy about Radar, who ALWAYS asks if it's OK to pet him even though we see you every single day, it cracks me up how you always want to hug my white dog even though you wear a solid black suit and end up covered in dog hair- I would take you with us. But I can't; you and the kosher deli and the hipster Brooklynites will all be staying here in NYC.
with one third of my stuff.
If this song doesn't get your feet stomping, then you're probably a robot, which is also cool.
Holy run-on-sentences Batman! I think I must be channeling Jack Kerouac.