So, ten years ago now, I was in SLC, practically homeless (I did live in a communal place, but I spent much of my time not there, I had no job, I fed myself by the kindness of the guys I was sleeping with, etc etc), living a very punk style of life. And enjoying it, though also realizing what a mess my head was in for being there.
That summer, I went back to the security of my well-to-do parents, accepted their control (they wouldn't allow me to get involved with an activist group, had me working something more respectable, like security at the local amusement park) because I was in bad shape mentally. It was right then that my dad died. One of the things I've always regretted is that he doesn't know me as the woman I've become, he died when I was still pretty much messed up, strung out, rebellious, out to save the world with my anger.
After that, my life has been somewhat of a slow uphill climb to the comfortable point I'm in now. But I still am mentally fixed in the point I was in then, and I know it.
Three years and some months ago, I got rid of most of my stuff, packed up a small Uhaul, moved to San Francisco. I insisted then that I would only ever have foldable furniture, and just enough stuff so that if I ever felt like moving on a whim, I could just pack up my pickup truck (I had a shitty pickup truck at the time) and just leave.
Two years after that, I packed up my Ford Explorer with about a fourth of my stuff, the rest came later at great expense, and now overflows my not-small house.
Tonight, my professor (and this is the ruminating part) was talking about how the people of the Gobe area don't consider stuff to be a valuable thing. It's not a measurement of them, their life, unlike us. He asked us why it would be an advantage for them to not have so much stuff, I immediately answered, "They're mobile." Exactly.
This is something I want to adhere to. I want to remain always ready to move out, or move onto the streets, or whatever it is so that I'm free to move on to whatever it is I want to do next, yet I feel mired, rooted, controlled by my stuff. I've been saying for weeks now that I want rid of it, but I put forth no effort to do so, and even get more stuff.
But even moreso, I see the punks, Snead's post, I'm not some crazy kid riding high on her anger, living for survival, feeling that sort of alive anymore. I'm sedentary, stationary, old. In a lot of ways this is good, I have posted on this subject before in my JournalDark, but in some ways I feel like I've gone too far the other way.
I do plan to move again someday. I should really do a massive cleaning out of my stuff. Sigh.