rubbish

"They were striking the set of a play, a humble, one-handed domestic drama, without permission from the cast. They started in what she called her sewing room- his old room. She was never coming back, she no longer knew what knitting was, but wrapping up her scores of needles, her thousand patterns, a baby’s half-finished yellow shawl, to give them away to strangers was to banish her from the living. They worked quickly, almost in a frenzy. She’s not dead, Henry kept telling himself. But her life, all lives, seemed tenuous when he saw how quickly, with what ease, all the trappings, all the fine details of a lifetime could be packed and scattered, or junked. Objects became junk as soon as they're were separated from their owner and their pasts- without her, her old tea cosy was repellent, with its faded farmhouse motif and pale brown stains on cheap fabric, and stuffing that was pathetically thin. As the shelves and drawers emptied, and the boxes and bags filled, he saw that no one owned anything really. It’s all rented, or borrowed. Our possessions will outlast us, we’ll desert them in the end. They worked all days, and put out twenty-three bags for the dustmen." Saturday. Ian mcewan.

its strange, certain days a realisation like this makes me smile; the knowledge that we are totally unconnected and never tied to anything is ultimately empowering and freeing, as it means we can do or be anything or go anywhere, without possessions or rubbish to hamper your way. however, at other times, its this realisation that makes me cry; that ultimately we own nothing, and can leave or disappear leaving nothing of permanence behind. simply pack up my things, and i no longer exist. strange how we are determined by things. its the stuff around me that marks that I'm still here; not me, but the crap I've accumulated over my life. similarly without me, the toys or things fail to make proper sense, or to have a context; they revert to simply being stuff, no history or meaning. strange, i can move on and get new things, as one does at each different phase in one's life, and my things can have new owners and new contexts as i shed them, but its right now, within this context, that we are both defined by the other, and help to give meaning, sense and context to each other. i didn't sleep last night, and so had a lot of time to think of this all, and life and all those big things, hence being so ridiculously over emotional and philosophical at this hour of a Tuesday morning. my car is in for service today, so I'm working from home again; a thing I've actually grown to not enjoy, as i seem never be able to get out of this place, i just get stuck here. and the banging and hammering from the neighbours doesn't help much either. i may just steal daddy's car (borrowed for the day) and run away somewhere nice for the afternoon. think thats a better option, and will allow for happier relaxation and escape. sounds good.