Transitions: The Culling
I have no idea if I’ll be living in the same apartment or even the same time zone a year from now, and the thought of having to move fills me with more horror than unemployment ever could. (True fact: when I moved into my current digs I still kept my old apartment for two months, because that’s about how long it took me and the Man Of The House to transport all of our stuff from Point A to Point B about 30 miles away.)
So I’ve set myself a goal of reducing the net volume and weight of my material possessions by at least 50 percent. The first thing I have to do is get rid of some books. A household census shows 14 bookcases in my apartment, ranging from little three-shelf jobs to an eight-foot-high black monstrosity bolted to the wall for safety. (Please don’t think I’m saying this to impress you with my bookishness. For every one piece I own with a title like Super-Intellectual Stuff Only Smart People Read, there’s about 50 pop-fiction novels, comic compendiums, and works of hardcore disaster porn.)
I donated about 250 pounds’ worth of books to the Salvation Army yesterday; that’s weight, not their value in British currency. Another dozen or so such trips should make a noticeable dent in the size of my book collection. And wouldn’t life be sweet if I could simply host a big bonfire in my backyard tonight?
Dang fire codes. But I won’t break them, especially not now that I might be starting a part-time gig working with a friend’s performance-art troupe political campaign. Imagine the embarrassment potential: “Candidate, you claim to stand for free speech and yet your press person over there was arrested for holding an illegal book-burning. How do you explain that?”