Albuquerque - Impermanence
I have been struck by the impermanence of things since i returned from Colorado a week ago.
Stuff. Items. Possessions.
Memories.
Actions.
###
I stored much of my clothing and mementos in a garage at the last house I was staying at. The sort of things you don't want to take on the road, but are hesitant to let go of. Ten years of life in Albuquerque has led to quite a collection of these things.
In my truck, I carried with me only that which I would immediately need. And several items I thought I would, but of course did not.
The garage flooded over the summer, two months after I had left. All that I had placed in there was soaked, and then left to sit in a warm, dark garage for two more months.
Mold.
Mold is most impressive. It eats cotton. Wool. Wood. Leather. Paper. It stops at acetate, such as photo negatives, but the moisture happily blurs the faces of all the pictures you had.
And the smell. You become paranoid of the smell after a few hours of trying to clean through the sopping boxes of rot, attempting to discover something that can be salvaged. You can smell that mold scent everywhere. Real or perceived, it doesn't matter. You become sensitive to it. You are reminded of your personal ruin when you use someone else bathroom and smell mold in there. When you go to the laundromat. Everywhere.
Some things can be washed - - bleached, if you are lucky - - the rest is trash. Real trash. Not even yard sale trash.
Washing is not sufficient. The smell remains. At least, to you. No one I asked seemed to think there was anything amiss, until told to smell again, told of the mold.
"Yeah, I guess so . . . it does sort of smell."
The thrift store and a large yard sale happily took most of the recovered clothing.
###
So that happened.
In reflection, most of the things were unimportant.
The pictures were a hard loss, though. I take a lot of pictures. Lately, since the mold, I have come to see this as a desperate effort to record my feats, to make others and myself remember - - this is at my most pessimistic, reflective and self-absorbed contemplation on my actions - - the rest of the time it is fun, and I will no doubt always continue to take pictures.
But, if you attach to much to those images, as proof of your actions and events, then it means nothing when the mold comes.
Who do you do it for?
The pictures are for me, and it is incidental if others may see them. (It is nice to share, don't get me wrong!)
Like my actions and my upcoming travels, it is not being able to say that I did it, whatever it is, to others, or providing photographic proof or trinkets, but rather an internalization of the event.
Do it for yourself.
The destruction was a good point of reflection for that.
The yard sale was a pleasure and point of reflection as well. Exchanging all those items for a wad of cash was good - - money that will further my travels, not items that will need to be stored and worried about.
If I have any dharma, it is about things. My attachment and the significance placed on what I possess, brands, the perceived durability of items and so on.
Next time: a tentative itinerary, and the tasks at hand for preparing to leave Albuquerque.
Stuff. Items. Possessions.
Memories.
Actions.
###
I stored much of my clothing and mementos in a garage at the last house I was staying at. The sort of things you don't want to take on the road, but are hesitant to let go of. Ten years of life in Albuquerque has led to quite a collection of these things.
In my truck, I carried with me only that which I would immediately need. And several items I thought I would, but of course did not.
The garage flooded over the summer, two months after I had left. All that I had placed in there was soaked, and then left to sit in a warm, dark garage for two more months.
Mold.
Mold is most impressive. It eats cotton. Wool. Wood. Leather. Paper. It stops at acetate, such as photo negatives, but the moisture happily blurs the faces of all the pictures you had.
And the smell. You become paranoid of the smell after a few hours of trying to clean through the sopping boxes of rot, attempting to discover something that can be salvaged. You can smell that mold scent everywhere. Real or perceived, it doesn't matter. You become sensitive to it. You are reminded of your personal ruin when you use someone else bathroom and smell mold in there. When you go to the laundromat. Everywhere.
Some things can be washed - - bleached, if you are lucky - - the rest is trash. Real trash. Not even yard sale trash.
Washing is not sufficient. The smell remains. At least, to you. No one I asked seemed to think there was anything amiss, until told to smell again, told of the mold.
"Yeah, I guess so . . . it does sort of smell."
The thrift store and a large yard sale happily took most of the recovered clothing.
###
So that happened.
In reflection, most of the things were unimportant.
The pictures were a hard loss, though. I take a lot of pictures. Lately, since the mold, I have come to see this as a desperate effort to record my feats, to make others and myself remember - - this is at my most pessimistic, reflective and self-absorbed contemplation on my actions - - the rest of the time it is fun, and I will no doubt always continue to take pictures.
But, if you attach to much to those images, as proof of your actions and events, then it means nothing when the mold comes.
Who do you do it for?
The pictures are for me, and it is incidental if others may see them. (It is nice to share, don't get me wrong!)
Like my actions and my upcoming travels, it is not being able to say that I did it, whatever it is, to others, or providing photographic proof or trinkets, but rather an internalization of the event.
Do it for yourself.
The destruction was a good point of reflection for that.
The yard sale was a pleasure and point of reflection as well. Exchanging all those items for a wad of cash was good - - money that will further my travels, not items that will need to be stored and worried about.
If I have any dharma, it is about things. My attachment and the significance placed on what I possess, brands, the perceived durability of items and so on.
Next time: a tentative itinerary, and the tasks at hand for preparing to leave Albuquerque.
posted by JAshby at 1:21 PM
1 Comments:
Hello JAshby, I enjoyed your pictures of Sagar Island. My 5th generation grandfather died there at a young age while hunting. Just this past week end I found its location. In his day, in the late 18th century it was known as Saugar or Sangun Island.
Thanks, Peter
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