i have to face it: the reason i hate moving is that i am extremely attached to my stuff. i am terrifed of losing things or leaving them behind.
i think i’m fairly good at getting rid of junk when the time comes: there’ve been times when i’ve given away almost everything i own, whittled my books down to a necessary few, found grateful homes for furniture and household goods. i’m not overly attached to my belongings in a general sense, because i know i have good luck at aquiring new ones. when i really need something, i’ll find it somehow.
it’s the accidental seperations that scare me. the second i realized that my journal was in my courier bag when it was stolen a year ago, i wanted to throw up. to this day i get a sinking feeling in my chest, just thinking about it. fuck.
so tonight, clearing out my bedroom, looking for the mate to a hiking boot in the pile of shoes by the back door, checking through the cupboards for that one elusive gilded bowl… i’m stressed beyond belief. i want to flip a switch and have everything i care about magically appear in milk crates, ready to go.
i think this is part of why i like travelling so much: the fewer possessions, the easier it is to hitchhike. instead of objects, i’m forced to collect stories/ideas/thoughts/new friendships and all sorts of other things that can’t weigh me down. even living in a pickup truck, i had to be realistic about what was and what was not worth hauling around the country. once read, books were traded in at the next second-hand book shop. beautiful treasures were limited to those which could decorate the cab. tools had to prove their daily usefullness, and fit into the already-cramped toolbox. art had to be worn, in the form of t-shirts, patches, or jewellery.
with all the best intentions in the world, however, i’ve never managed to carry that same attitude over into my stationary life. i love things that are usefull, or could potentially be made usefull. i want to have things on hand, just in case anyone needs them. i feel happy when people say that i’m a good person to ask if something can’t be found or a problem needs to be solved. it’s part of the identity i construct for myself: dude with the hookups, kid with the skills.
in order to be that person, i depend on having a stable home base.
therefore, moving that home base (and taking it apart and re-assembling it in the process) fucks with my identity. i’m a wreck, tired and grouchy and achy… and desperate to keep everything labeled and organized and seperate and together and and and and… i hate moving. even when my new house is just across the street.