Jason Driskill

I’ve begun the process of packing. Or trying to pack. It is amazing at how much junk I’ve accumulated over the last decade, from the many many places I’ve lived. It’s equally amazing at how much of it I find difficult to part with, as if it bears some sentimental value to me even though it came from a thrift store and has been in storage for the past six years. Like a dirty yellow lampshade, or a box of padlocks that I bought for a sculpture class but never used.  Or a door that I stole only three weeks ago that has somehow found its way into my heart.  Even though I cannot figure out what to do with it, I cannot bring myself to give or throw it away.

The proper thing to do, in this opportunity of moving across the country, is to get rid of EVERYTHING and start from scratch. The blue and red lamps that I love, the bookshelves that I built, my cobalt blue dishes, all my BW photography darkroom equipment, and even my small library of books about gender theory - I need to let it all go, and just keep the basics. I need to keep my mattress, my dog’s carrier crate, and a few clothes. Oh, and the Mark Hosford print. And Kristen’s two paintings. And the posters that I brought back from England. And the small desk lamp that I bought on eBay. And that expensive tea kettle that someone gave me. And maybe a few of my blue dishes. And the box of letters and postcards that I’ve been saving since jr high. And of course I should keep all my tools. And all my photography equipment…  I might as well keep those two enlargers.  I guess I should keep that old stolen door, too. You never know when something like that might come in handy.

See how easily everything jumps back on to the moving van? Here’s the strategy that I’m trying to employ. I’m putting everything that I plan on taking with me in the empty room that has formerly been serving as my pitiful little “studio.” I’ll pretend like it’s the moving van, and get things boxed up, ready for moving day. Then the things that do not make it into that room will default into the “refuse” category, and I can figure out how to get rid of them: thrift store, garage sale, or garbage.

But it’s a stressful endeavor, digging, and sorting, and disowning. Last weekend instead of going home Friday to pack, like I planned, I stayed at the office and reorganized the bookroom. Saturday and Sunday both found me back at the office, all day long, enjoying a space to which I’d brought organization, and avoiding the chaos of all my stuff that desperately needs purging.

I have to remember that I am not defined by my posessions.
Seven more days of work, and seventeen more days in Nashville.