No wonder I’ve been gallivanting about, taking pictures of trees and waxing poetic. I’m avoiding something. Namely, spending too much time in my apartment.
My place is an absolute tip. I love British slang, in this case because it exactly describes the state of my home: it looks like someone tipped a dumpster in here. My desk is buried under stuff, I’ve treated the dining table as a horizontal filing area for a longer than I’m comfortable admitting, my old computer is standing in a corner, waiting to go to its new home (this weekend, yay!), a pile of summer clothes are airing out after 7 months in a box, the couch is half-buried under miscellaneous artifacts and there are about 47 magazines lying about in various stages of read-ness. If something horrible should happen to me and CSI: Toronto came in to investigate, they’d probably get lost in here.
I keep intending to Do Something about it all, have even devised a clever bit of subterfuge to slowly erode the dominion of the mess. My secret? Throw out one thing a day. That works really well, except for the days where I pick up the mail or bring home more than one thing or get busy and forget about the damn rule for a day or two (or 9) and before I know it, I’m back to living in a style best described as Early Landfill.
I’ve considered moving – it’s the only way I know of forcing myself to go through everything I own and be ruthless about it (not to mention get it done sometime in this millennium), but I really like my apartment and the neighbourhood is a dream. I’ve tried pretending to move, but seem to have trouble believing myself. Most days, I just marvel at how much crap you can cram into a one-bedroom apartment.
I’m a packrat who adores minimalism. A walking (so to speak) oxymoron.