THE AFTERMATH
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
How attached are you to your things?
Two weeks ago, when I arrived back home from spending three weeks in Singapore, I went straight to my room, my sanctuary. My room is normally a mess, with clothes strewn all over the place and books and papers littered. But it's my room, my mess. It's the way I like it. But as I entered my room I felt an eerie tingle, knowing that something was wrong but I couldn't quite put my finger on it. Flash! My feather down comforter was gone. Flash! I was missing my two favorite pillows. Flash! My blue murano plate that I saved up for and bought in Venice was missing. And my BOSE speakers no where to be found. Calm down, I told myself. I'd barely been home for five minutes. I was tired and lacking sleep. I still had some time before having to meet Trish. So I prepared to take an afternoon nap, and the way I do my afternoon naps is by turning on the tv, playing a dvd of some light Sitcom and laying in my dark, cold room. Only thing is, my TV won't work and my DVD player isn't in its normal place but on the freaking bed. What the fuck is going on! I blow my top and find out that my comforter has been HAND WASHED because it was peed on (don't ask!), my blue plate broken since it was used as an ashtray in the bathroom, my tv broken and my speakers in someone else's room. The people responsible have not apologized, nor have they even acknowledged that they did anything wrong. I felt violated and disrespected.
But just as I started to come to terms with what happened in my room, the ceiling in my office collapses and drenches my most prized possessions: 27 years of journals, photographs, negatives, Data CD's, scrapbooks, keepsakes and books I've collected over the years. Everything I own fits into two tiny rooms. And most of it gone. Pages are stuck together, papers yellowing, boxes ruined from water logging, glass shattered and wood covered in ooze from God knows what.
How attached am I to these things? Well, they're worth nothing in terms of currency, but I kept them all. Every letter received, every moment, even mundane, caught on film, books read and spent my father's hard earned money on, gifts received. I have a ceramic sun and moon mask that I bought in Venice. It's been spared from the storm in my office. It sits on the beam behind what used to be a gorgeous dark wood desk, now scratched up and stained. It hangs smiling over a truly depressing, dank and smelly box of filth. That's what almost 3 decades of memories have been amounted to.
They're just things, right? But are they really JUST things? I have a very weird memory. I can remember minute details like, what I or someone was wearing on a certain day, but big things, like what was said, what was done, those things I need triggers for. And now I find I'm left without anymore ammo.
Two weeks ago, when I arrived back home from spending three weeks in Singapore, I went straight to my room, my sanctuary. My room is normally a mess, with clothes strewn all over the place and books and papers littered. But it's my room, my mess. It's the way I like it. But as I entered my room I felt an eerie tingle, knowing that something was wrong but I couldn't quite put my finger on it. Flash! My feather down comforter was gone. Flash! I was missing my two favorite pillows. Flash! My blue murano plate that I saved up for and bought in Venice was missing. And my BOSE speakers no where to be found. Calm down, I told myself. I'd barely been home for five minutes. I was tired and lacking sleep. I still had some time before having to meet Trish. So I prepared to take an afternoon nap, and the way I do my afternoon naps is by turning on the tv, playing a dvd of some light Sitcom and laying in my dark, cold room. Only thing is, my TV won't work and my DVD player isn't in its normal place but on the freaking bed. What the fuck is going on! I blow my top and find out that my comforter has been HAND WASHED because it was peed on (don't ask!), my blue plate broken since it was used as an ashtray in the bathroom, my tv broken and my speakers in someone else's room. The people responsible have not apologized, nor have they even acknowledged that they did anything wrong. I felt violated and disrespected.
But just as I started to come to terms with what happened in my room, the ceiling in my office collapses and drenches my most prized possessions: 27 years of journals, photographs, negatives, Data CD's, scrapbooks, keepsakes and books I've collected over the years. Everything I own fits into two tiny rooms. And most of it gone. Pages are stuck together, papers yellowing, boxes ruined from water logging, glass shattered and wood covered in ooze from God knows what.
How attached am I to these things? Well, they're worth nothing in terms of currency, but I kept them all. Every letter received, every moment, even mundane, caught on film, books read and spent my father's hard earned money on, gifts received. I have a ceramic sun and moon mask that I bought in Venice. It's been spared from the storm in my office. It sits on the beam behind what used to be a gorgeous dark wood desk, now scratched up and stained. It hangs smiling over a truly depressing, dank and smelly box of filth. That's what almost 3 decades of memories have been amounted to.
They're just things, right? But are they really JUST things? I have a very weird memory. I can remember minute details like, what I or someone was wearing on a certain day, but big things, like what was said, what was done, those things I need triggers for. And now I find I'm left without anymore ammo.