The things she carries.

The people, let me introduce to you the contents of my bag:

• new textbook from a publisher, The Bedford Book of Genres
• other new textbook from a publisher, writer/designer
• old textbook, currently in use, the one I use in my class
• lovely bound book in which I write occasional notes to myself, or sketch out ideas, or, apparently, in which I stick random pieces of paper and so forth and so on--postcards, etc.
• folder with the manuscript of a work in progress
• sheaf of draft poems from my class (if you measure this in symbolic weight, it is the heaviest thing in my bag)
• book that came in the mail yesterday, Contingency, Immanence, and the Subject of Rhetoric
• other book that came in the mail yesterday, Mics, Cameras, and Symbolic Action: Audio-Visual Composition for Writing Teachers
• my lunch
• my mug
• an empty water bottle.

The people, let me introduce to you the contents of my other bag:

• MacBook Pro
• power cord for my MacBook Pro
• other manuscript of a work in progress
• adaptors and whatnot

--and to the bag itself, which is

• elegant, but made of a kind of heavy tan leather.

And also, meet my purse, which has in it

• three dry-erase markers
• two pens
• checkbook
• wallet with tons of
• coins that add up to about $2.03, in the smallest denominations possible (i.e.: pennies)
• four lipsticks

The other day, as I bent down to lift up my bag, then my other bag, then my purse, and probably some  additional random item or two, and brandishing my keys in my free hand, whichever that hand might have been, I said to the guy in the Publication Center, "Gotta gather all my bags," with a little smile, because I am aware that it is ridiculous. 

And he replied, in all seriousness, "You do carry a lot of stuff." 

I had to parse that for a minute. Was he generalizing from this very specific set of particulars--that is, "Today, htms, you seem have a lot of stuff to carry"? Or was this, like, an observation from, say, as long as he has known me? As in, "Your natural state of being seems to be that of a carrier of stuff"?

Why do I need to carry around four random books, books that I know in my heart I will not be able to take the time to peruse or skim or even open? In my heart, I know this, but in another part of my heart (big heart), I also happen to believe that days are inherently capacious and surprising, and that I might, at any moment, need to consider immanence and rhetoric, or enumerate the genres, or whip out a mic or a camera (note to self: need field recorder stat). 

I carry the books because they symbolize the possibility that there might be room for something more, something better, something more contemplative and exploratory, instead of just the one thing after another that my days actually are.

Once, another colleague, in observing me and my laptop and a whole bunch of other stuff traveling down the hall, opined that I might need a llama to help me with my burdens.

Sometimes my back hurts, and sometimes my shoulder. 

The people, it is possible that I carry around too much stuff. 

(metaphorical and otherwise.)

Stuff.

Graphic credit: Carl Richards via The New York Times

We have a lot of it.

That is not all.

We have made the monumental decision to improve the basement of our house by getting sheetrock and better ceilings and a couple of power outlets in the hall and new carpet in the bedrooms and some other shenanigans I don't know what all.

This necessitated removing stuff from the rooms that are to be improved.

So. Much. Stuff.

The untidiness!

The Gatorade bottles, empty, under certain people's beds!

"We have got to get rid of some of this furniture," I said, emphatically, to the historian, while sitting on some of the furniture that we might have to get rid of.

"I promise," said the historian.

Tomorrow, the wrecking ball.

I mean the contractors.

As God is my witness, we will get rid of some of that stuff.

And that IS
all.

Wait, one more project:

The Music Project!

When I was getting ready to go to Scotland--by which I mean "getting ready to risk thrombosis by sitting for countless hours on a transatlantic flight, God bless it for taking me to see my daughter!"--I charged up my iPod and the Historian's iPod, so that we would both have lots of music to listen to which would hopefully distract us from the clots possibly forming in our legs. While doing this, I confronted the shift in my iPod paradigm. A sketch:

my iPod(s): a love story. by lisab

Well, suffice it to say that in the rush to leave town, I was not able to summon the sober wisdom of Solomon to decide what music should depart from the portable jukebox of my iPod, back onto the archives of iTunes. So that meant that I left a lot of new music behind, which was sad in retrospect, because the Jet of Thrombosis would have been the ideal setting for discovering that music. For getting comfortable with it.

Alas, no. It's true that at one point, I found myself listening to a Genius playlist of 80s tunes. Which had its comforts, and that's the truth.

Anyway. I have spent some time over the past couple of days assessing the contents of this iPod and removing some stuff. For instance, when I was in the car, listening to another Genius playlist, a Jack Johnson tune came up and I thought, I don't ever need to listen to Jack Johnson again in my life. That was a rather emphatic judgment, but I made it. Jack Johnson does not come with when me and my iPod are out and about, although if I ever reconsider my judgment, I know where to find him.

What's good is that I now have some new music to listen to. I told the historian last night that I hated this streamlining, paring away project, even though it's a project that presses on me, because it seems like preparing to die. Because he is empathetic and because he is kind, he didn't laugh. The thing about streamlining your iPod is that you can have your cake and eat it too, because you don't have to really get rid of things. You can rearrange them--some things are on the iPod, some are on one or another of your hard drives. What's harder is culling out the books to give away, or the clothes, or other non-digital stuff. When that's gone, it's gone, and your life may be sleeker, but it may also be poorer.

I can hear my daughter telling me things are not people, Mom. She is right. She is right. Well, my music is in much better order. Now, onto the the things.

This is what I told my students the other day,

and it actually sums up how I feel, pretty much:

--especially if the pencil of doom is the grading pencil of doom, and the documents falling from the sky are student drafts.

Then yes OMG. There is so much to do.

Stuff I am not sorry I bought.

Lately, I have been going through (endlessly, forever) my belongings to give things away. I have too much stuff. I know it. And it's hard not to keep getting stuff, because: they keep making new stuff! That I want!

Sigh.

Occasionally, I make a solemn vow--a solemn, fleeting vow--that I will not buy anything new for [x] amount of time. This really only works if you are in a coma. Because there is evidence of new stuff all around you! Do you watch television? read a newspaper? look at the internet? Basically all vehicles for new-stuff-info, which seeps into your brain like a vapor until you want it! you want all the stuff!

Alas and alack.

There are, however, some kind of expensive things I've bought that I do not regret. In fact, I'm glad I bought these things, for they have improved and enlarged my life.

For instance: these shoes are possibly the most wonderful shoes I have ever had. Are they plain looking? Sensible? Comfortable? Yes, all these cozy adjectives and more. I tromped through fields and valleys in them in Scotland and the north of England. They make me feel like a timeless English gentleman. Or perhaps an early 20th century suffragette. Either way, these shoes are like time travel, globetrotting, big-idea-mongering, and badassery all rolled up in an American-made shoe. They are worth every penny I paid for them and more.

This perfume I first smelled in a museum store in L.A., that's how fancy its provenance is. The store way almost about to close, but I gathered my courage to ask the very hip, slightly haughty counterperson to bring it out so I could put it on my wrist. It's part of a series of incense-based scents made by the madly avant-garde Comme des Garcons fashion house. All the way back to our hotel, I sniffed my wrist. I smelled like the entire history of the Catholic church, like a grand cathedral after mass. I smelled like the French pope. I smelled like a hierarchy. Not all of those things are necessarily good things. But I liked how it didn't smell friendly: it smelled mysterious and a little bit forbidding. At that point in my life, I kind of needed something that was mysterious and forbidding. It was like a secret weapon. On days when I knew I needed a little bit of backup, I wore this scent. I still wear it to this day. And it was worth every penny I paid for it.

Spare change.

the above says:
1. stack of white clothes (for the spring)
2. Bruiser
3. harness (after the evening walk...)
4. furry throw (it kept us warm all winter)

Now, let me first just say: I saved up my babysitting money and bought an iPad. B, I am in the throes of app love. 3, I have not properly indulged this love because: grading, obviously, and (e), I especially love this one little app called Notability where you can write on the screen WITH YOUR FINGER, and it is really really fun.

I know this is frivolous--the post and the iPad--but I don't care. It is fun. The end.

My new lens, or a bunch of my stuff.

dinosaur, with batteries 

a tidy selection of gloves

vacation photo

little painting cards

wedding photo, glass warthog (treasures)

green wall, lamp, painting

pensive dog

a little snow on the branch

lower branch of the mobile

In summation.

Me, to the historian, while the television is muted during a commercial break whilst watching The Good Wife: Guess how much work I got done today?

The historian: How much?

Me: Not any.

The historian: [expletive.]

Organizing.

Funny thing, I feel like I have written this post before, the one I'm about to write, the one about how disorganized I am.  But really, how can I be expected to be organized, when I have so much stuff? Wait, I think I've already written that post, too--the one about how much stuff I have. Come to think of it, this may be my true subject, the chaos and disorder of me and my stuff:

Today, I thought I might make a little movie using some excellent footage I got at the beach, of two lively dogs playing at the water's edge.  I was thinking I might revive a poem I wrote quite a while ago called "Shoreline Grammar," which has dogs playing in it.  This merely required me to find a copy of the poem, then I could begin fussing around with iMovie &c., fussing around being a good way to learn at least some basic stuff.  But first I had to put my hands on the poem, or at least, that's what I figured a logical first step would be.

About eleven or twelve file folders later--and these are actual files, the people, files made from paper--I found (get this!) a handwritten copy of the poem, which I believe I actually had made copies of and took them to my writing group, because it also had my notes from the group.

Please consider these details:  Handwritten copy.  Paper files.  Twelve file folders later.

But now I have it, this sad little handwritten poem, and I have made a digital file of it, started digging around in the Indo-European roots, blah blah blah.  The project will happen.  It's just, the pre-production around here is such a nightmare.  

(file this under:  Chaos and Disorder and Stuff.)