“The things you own end up owning you”

- Tyler Durden.

It is only with the packing that goes with any move of considerable distance that one really begins to appreciate the sheer amount of stuff one accumulates in such a short time. The shackles of capital gain, the obsession with “things” and what is mine, which locks us into not only place, but job, and focus’s our lifestyle obsession to the point of exclusion.

A few years ago I was faced with a decision, strip my life of its Ikea trappings and seek solace and refuge in a simpler lifestyle, one where the pace is a little bit slower, a bit more “mañana” or continue the fast-paced, higher stress but ultimately more financially rewarding track I was on. I of course chose the later for many reasons, some being accumulated debt, some being that I like the challenge, and sitting on my laurels is not really something I’m quite yet ready to do. But also because I am a total “whore for comfort” and like my things to be of the finer variety, from 400 thread count sheets, the imported beer and coffee I drink to the women I date, I like them to be of a certain, indefinable, quality.

And although I don’t think I will ever lower my standards when it comes to women, I do sometimes wonder if I could not pursue a different course and lead a simpler life, leave many of the distractions that the capital pursuit offers and in a more relaxed setting find the answers I seek. Or maybe I just need to use my breaks from work more wisely and truly “let go”, get a little more hedonistic and indulge me and my need to unwind a tad more, while learning to say “I don’t give a fuck” in a subtle but respectably carefree manner.

Yet packing brings with itself an interesting proposition, as you sort through the accumulation of a few months of just living, you recall with mixed emotions much of what you own and the story behind it, you find things long lost to the bottom of drawers, and things maybe you’d rather wished, were actually gone forever. But last night for the first time I experienced regret about my leaving, while I mentally sorted through the packing to be done: I realised that when it comes time for me to unpack, I will be alone. As each item is unwrapped in some future moment and made to find a home in a new place, with it will come a memory that is not just next door, or a suburb away, but now a country and a continent. The people…new-friends whom have made my life here mean something will not be with me, and this is especially hard when I think of her.

And although I know others will step into my life and be as friends were, they will step in differently, for I will be different, and last night as I thought of my things…I think the one recurring emotion that I felt most was all about the story…most of my possessions that really mean something to me, and I mean all my stuff, an apartment and life full of such have one, the rest is just Treen, but what saddened me most about the stories is that they are told just to me, they are not shared…and I can’t help but wonder if that lessens the owning or somehow makes them all the more special?

So as I stare at packed belongings and this weeks impending “lost days” of world travel and wonder at the owning of things and the wisdom of such I still recognise there is something unsettling about coming home to a place unfinished, a place that lacks the comfort of home, a place that as of yet is still not one in which the homeward trek is looked upon with complete favour, a place in which the completion was put on hold to afford another the chance to stamp themselves in it, rather than on it. So it’s incomplete state is one I look upon with mixed emotions, over-riding of which is the eager anticipation of finally turning it into my home, and while I know the Indy Lair must be built with care…the right touches of masculinity and yet a slightly caring and open view must also be conveyed…it must impart a sense of warmth and trust but at the same time tell the women who enter that this is a Man’s home, most of all it has to be mine, a place where I am at ease with everything I am. Each item must be chosen for its own strength, for its contribution to not only the room, but the home as a whole…

...but not being patient, I want it all done yesterday.

And before my readership labels me as one of those types of guys, I’ll have you all know that there isn’t a single mirror tile facing the bed, nor is a single scrap of red-crushed velvet anywhere in my “Fortress of Solitude”, for this is what it truly is, it is my place to retreat from the world, and if it has been, or is being built to trap women, then in truth it is being built, with care and attention to detail, to trap just one woman, the one who has yet to convince me that she is the one, and she is deserving of my sole attention…until then I will retreat to my home, I will shop with care and furnish it to reflect me: trolling the shops of Dempsey and Park Mall, and for those less essential items I will even brave the hordes at Ikea…

…until I no longer have to because it is complete.

And as for ownership, we'll just have to wait and see if my things end up owning me, or I continue to control my own future and own them?

Technorati Tag: The Dogs Name, Wisdom, Heading Home, The Lair

Lectiones Sacrae Ex Libris Indiana 06:00