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Sunday, Nov. 17, 2002 / 6:14 p.m. ~Overwhelmed, As Usual~ I keep feeling really strange, lonely maybe, and that is strange for me to feel that way. I've been spending this day in a not so normal way, and perhaps that makes me feel like I want to get back to whatever seems normal. It's not that spectacular, I've simply been doing what I've said I'd do, what I told myself I needed to do, what I have to do, clean my kitchen. But it's a huge project, and in the middle of it I decided to unpack a box that's been sitting on the floor in front of my coat closet for the entire time I've lived here, some five and a half years. A box filled with tins I've collected over the years, some filled with ashes of my beloved cats, cremated years ago, some empty, all very fun, very cool, a giant Oreo, Celestial Seasonings Teas tins, little cookie tins, foreign, from Germany, Italy, France, and Rainforest Crunch. Remember that stuff? Do they still make it and sell it? Two apartments ago there was a built-in 'hutch' between the kitchen and the dining room, in a little hallway. I filled it with glasses and miscellaneous junk, all the stuff I had no room for elsewhere, and on top, on the counter surface covered with a shelf paper made to look like gray marble, I laid out my tins, very purposefully, very creatively. It looked great, I kept collecting. Since I moved, they've been in this box. Not anymore, but whoa, where do I put all this shit? I'm tempted to say, "I have too much stuff!", then I stop and change that to "I don't have enough room for all my stuff!", because it's good stuff, it's stuff I want to keep, I enjoy this part of my packrat nature, all the cool stuff that I can place in just the right spot. Except I am running out of just the right spots. I guess I'd planned to put up some shelves in the dining room, everything could be placed on two or three shelves, but I was afraid to put screws in the walls - this is an apartment, not a house, after all, I can't make it too much my own. The box has been emptied, there is still one more sitting in the same spot, and inside it are the items I had on my fireplace mantle at that same apartment, two apartments ago. Pictures in frames, small gems and minerals, rocks, funky candles, bottles, like artifacts of my life. A lot was given to me by people who know I collect everything, a lot I found, a lot I purchased. Just all kinds of things. Things. Stuff. Bibelots. I want to be able to see it all, I do, but I no longer have a 'hutch', nor a fireplace mantle that is like a wide shelf going all the way around on three sides. Now I have everything spread out, it's all over the place, and I keep walking by it thinking I've bitten off more than I can chew. Are maintenance people coming back for something? Did they do their 'unit inspection' when they came to fix the heater and the garbage disposal? Do I need to worry about people walking through here? I just feel so out of sorts, so lost. It's strange how unpacking a box from years ago can do that. If I had just picked up everything, cleaned it, cleaned the surfaces, and put everything back, in the kitchen, that would've been that. I'd be through by now. I still have two counters left, and I can barely bring myself to go back in there. Because it involves so much thought, so much creative energy. I don't want everything I have, not anymore. I want to get rid of some of the things well-meaning people gave me. I never really wanted that ceramic teapot in the shape of a cottage that Maria gave me. I never really wanted that sleeping curled up cat glass candy dish Helen gave me (fuck Secret Santas!), it was nice, the thoughts behind the gifts were so sweet, but I don't have ROOM for this crap. I can't fit the crap I've chosen for myself, much less the crap they chose because they thought I'd like it. As it turns out, I adapt to change fairly well, but getting there, to that place of adaptation, of assimilation, is pure HELL for me. Just walking by the counter where my mixer sits, looking at the new arrangement of added tins, is driving me fucking batty. And I hate this part of myself. This obsessive compulsive anal retentive side of me. I'm good at arranging, at display, but it's a fucking kitchen, not a tin store. I'm not selling the stuff, I'm just trying to lay it out, for WHOM?!?!?!?!? It's for me, and thusly it has to be perfect. Gah, I'm making myself crazy with it, really. I started by listening to music, and that was great, I was jamming, it was fine. Then I turned on the computer, downloaded some songs from Kazaa (which I finally downloaded last night, did I already write that?), listened to my playlist, which I think is really cool to be able to do, listen to a playlist on my computer (yeah, the whole rest of the world has already been doing it for a few years now, duh). But now??? It's cold outside, it's dark. I'm lost, as I said. What should I be doing? Is there some kind of prep for going back to work tomorrow? I shoved the comforter and sheets into the laundry room last night when I put the down comforter on my bed (which is really old, and smells not so fresh, which makes me think I should get rid of it too, get a new one...), but I'm wondering if that inspection has to happen, what then? I'm simply re-thinking everything, my eyes opened and I can see all of this, and I don't know how to manage all this stuff. I wish I could just be a competent person, fill up bags with trash, with things to give away, and take things out of here, load them up and not just drive around with them in my car for months on end, but put things where they belong. Part of me is wishing I'd just spent this day like yesterday, just online the entire day, chatting with strangers on AIM, writing in a journal, and a diary, reading others. I'm terrible at projects. I dive in, I can't finish, I'm too much of a perfectionist, and when I see that I can't do it, I can't make happen what I want to happen, it all proves too daunting and I give up. I have to find a way to finish, seriously, I have tins and things all over the place now. But here's one good thing, I cleaned my bottle collection, put them all back, on a clean counter (the 'bar' portion of the kitchen counter), and they look fabulous. I could go on, but I'm making myself sick with it. I hardly even want to proofread this, to read it again. It's one of those things that's just written to get it out, you know? Get it off my chest, then I have to get back to it. Diary writing as catharsis. Nothing unusual there, but I pity the poor person who actually attempts to read this. If I were you I'd skim. Or maybe just skip it altogether. Oh, one more thing, I put the Mammies away indefinitely. I can't believe I ever had them out on display, they're really pretty awful, once I took a look I could see that. My eyes are open today. Cost of the War in Iraq
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