Stuff

Stuff. We have a lot of it. And we don't even have that much.

It all seems to go somewhere, mean something, need a place to be. I'm not sure how I feel about all this stuff now that I need it to fill corners and cover empty walls, dampen echoing hallways and hide chipped painted floors.

I mean, I like pretty furniture and art and my books, my books! and clothes from around the world (and Anthropologie) and fabric stuffed into boxes that someday I will transform into more stuff to put in other boxes as finished stuff for use at another time. Another time when I am elegant and put together and wear silk skirts to the market and sit in oiled rocking chairs and read every single one of the hundreds of books I keep meaning to get around to.

Do I need any of it? I've lived for years out of boats and backpacks, wearing the same bathingsuit/shorts/shirt for days, going fancy chairless for months, washing my face with water and slathering a dollop of olive oil on my skin.
But its hard for me to imagine selling this stuff, or giving it away, or doing without. Even when I forget about it in a dresser in San Diego or closet in Connecticut, when I find it again I promise the cloth or wood or bubbly potion that this time I will use it. It is useful for me to have it.

So I wander the rooms in this house overwhelmed by the stuff holding it together and the need for more and more.
And I wonder who will ever really USE any of it.
And I wonder if I would rather live on a boat with one pair of shorts and a shirt and a grungy old bathing suit that falls off my hips when I dive in to the water to bathe.
And I wonder if stuff just leads to buying a house to house all the stuff when all you (i) really need is a toothbrush and an umbrella.

And my favorite skirt from Anthropologie.