what the storage unit said

I'm back in San Francisco for a wee bit to visit possessions that have been sitting in storage here during my year in Vancouver.  Here are not just 20 boxes of books, but also life's archives.  Now that I'm moving to Sydney, anything I keep must be worth shipping across the Pacific. 

O to have settled in the classic large house, where things could accumulate in attics with no need for these annual cullings.  My storage unit asks harder questions than any mountaintop guru.  "What matters?" the unit asks, frowning as I cower in the flourescent corridor.  "Should you keep the three inch stack of grieving letters and clippings, surrounding the 1985 death of a student of yours in a climbing accident?"  "Should you keep yearbooks full of hopeful commentaries that can only intensify your regrets when you reread them now in middle age?"  "Should you keep the complete letters to you of your late great aunt, a remarkable woman who was an army nurse during WW2?"  Some may be able to answer these questions, but before I can hurl the item decisively, I hear the followup:  Why or why not?  Discuss.  Each of these questions deserves a long essay, covering (a) the history of the item in question, in its personal, political and social dimensions, (b) ethical precedents on the question, and (c) just enough sensually rich narrative about the memories evoked by the item, both to ground or enliven the essay and to overwhelm any clear thinking that might arise from (a) and (b). 

Or perhaps each question is a koan.  Where neither logic nor emotion can decide fully that something deserves its weight, some sort of magical insight is required.  My 1991 acceptance letter from Shakespeare Quarterly, announcing my first and last publication from my scholarly days.  Love letters and poems from a great love 14 years ago -- they might still teach me something, no?  A fine copy of Marlowe's complete plays, a gift from the cast of a play I directed 20 years back -- with my theatre days so far gone, will I ever read a Marlowe play again? 

This storage outfit has locked dumpsters.  I can lift the lid enough to slide things into them, but there's no getting them back out.  In a few cases, I managed to walk to the dumpster with a freighted item and slide it in.  Sometimes as I did this the item seemed to wiggle in resistance, as though trying to turn soft pleadinh eyes to meet mine.  No question, if the dumpster had been open, a few would have crawled back out and snuggled again into my packing, like cute but hopelessly mildewed teddy bears.

Still, I will ship many of these things to Sydney, but some part of me would be relieved if they never arrived. 

Comments

[dale]

My basement interrogates me like that. So I don't go down there anymore :-)

Great post. But tell me it's not true, about never reading Marlowe again!

[Pica]

I have this perpetual yes/no response to throwing things out. On the one hand, they do, in a very real way, weigh us down. We live in 600 square feet. I live with a packrat, especially where books are concerned. It feels good to get rid of things that someone else can use (Freecycle rocks).

But I also seem to have become the family archivist. Unless I can find a good place to send a photograph, probably the only one now in existence, of my great-great-great grandfather, I'm stuck with it for now.

Courage and strength, Jarrett, as you make your way through these whimpering papers...

[Dave]

Great post. Yeah, it's easy to talk in the abstract about the need to disencumber ourselves, but personal memorabilia like this are really tough. Maybe, though, you exaggerate the dilemma by reducing the choices to "long essay" or "trash". What about a *short,* sensually rich narrative for each item that you can't decide about? Post it to this blog, then throw the item out. How long could it take? (Of course, I have *no ulterior motives whatsoever* for making this suggestion!)

[Brenda]

With my household in storage that I really can't afford for a year now, and an immanent move to an accessible, closer storage space, I well identify with your perusal of your life through what you've stored. A part of me almost wanted it to all go, disencumbering myself of my past, a fresh future. I'm an immigrant, been through this once before. But my children were aghast. So then the struggle to keep. Really, it all seems like flotsam on the jetsum; a floatation of papers and paintings and photos and furniture in my case that could easily be bilged out at sea (though I'm far inland, I like the metaphor).

You do have to keep parts of yourself; there's no doubt about that.

[Miss Bliss]

Well, I had a Mother who threw things out...all the time. Therefore I am something of a packrat. I hate moving and don't know how people tolerate it more than once every 20 years or so (thus my almost nervous breakdown at having to move within five years of my last move). It takes me two years just to unpack for pete sake. Good luck with it all. I owe you a phone call, I'll try this weekend.

[Peter]

I feel the same essay questions coming on when I go through my junk. I think it is the torture of the essay questions that causes many to fall back on their default settings. Mine is Keep.

[Jarrett]

Thanks to everyone for these comments! They gave me a bit of fortitude in the face of all the demands of history. Cheers, J