Seeing the stream rise from my first cup of Major Dickason’s as I look out at the neighbor’s bright roses improves my mood just a bit. There is a moment of comfort in all down-snuggly on a cool morning. Vera Paris’ collar clinks against the dish as she indulges in a mid-morning snack. I think she is the only cat we re-collared after the last round of flea medicine.
The last post I even began, but did not complete and upload, was in mid-August. It always feels so strange to "pick up the pen" after a long time. Now what was my voice again? It isn't just the constant stream of nagging, derision, with dips into a clutching existential despair is it? I seem to recall other thoughts with more positive and engaging ideas.
I thought maybe once the coffee kicked in that I would be more directed in trying to communicate something valuable to someone. That does not seem to be the case. I am sure more coffee is in order.
stuff
/stəf/
noun
- 1.
matter, material, articles, or activities of a specified or indeterminate kind that are being referred to, indicated, or implied."a pickup truck picked the stuff up"
synonyms: material, fabric, cloth, textile; More
The stuff of stuff. Stuff is my reality these days. Having all of it in one place for the first time something like 41 years is a big deal for a slightly nomadic non-home owner with the heart of a collector. I do get down on myself for having so much, but then again, I am not my biggest fan. Shoveling and sifting through as many vintage tablecloths and dishtowels as my friends suggested that I have. I am stunned at my acquisitions. I have so much cooking stuff I could run a restaurant.
Origin
Middle English (denoting material for making clothes): shortening of Old French estoffe ‘material, furniture,’ estoffer ‘equip, furnish,’ from Greek stuphein ‘draw together.’
In a nod toward fairness to me, I have the flotsam and jetsam of the physical "estates" of my father and my deceased brother, not to mention the actual estate of my mother. So I can't take entire credit for the ridiculous number of knives, cutting boards, and rolling pins.
In absolutely text-book Sally Anne style, I am reorganizing every room and drawer in the house, save for those in Janet's room (for the moment). It is like living in a windy desert of belongings, with piles shifting like dunes only to reform somewhere else.
No one wants to live like this. I am so exhausted, overstimulated, and overwhelmed I am cowed into inertia. (As if it were not my middle name.) But occasionally, there is a breakthrough and some areas can be declared organized for the moment.
It is lovely to be reunited with beloved objects and to see them here and there around the house. My poetry collection! It's not all together yet as I am only about half unpacked and still less of it is organized. However, I did get pleasure out of looking through the ones I did unpack. The goal is to be able to relax and read some.
And, then there are the cds. I was completely stuck on the kitchen which was so full of stuff I couldn't do any more than boil water. And then I recalled that there was a lot of music nearby. I randomly opened a box that had been sealed up and found some gems. When I went to bed, the kitchen was functional again. It was Waiting for Columbus that got me through the most of it. There have been days of repeat playing of Mercenary Territory. Play it very loud. Jesus Lowell, deliver me from disorganization.
I've spent my time in your rodeo
It's been so long and I've got nothing to show
Well I'm so plain loco
Fool that I am I'd do it over again ...
P.S. Here's the whole lyric. You really need the music for the whole experience.
P.S. Here's the whole lyric. You really need the music for the whole experience.
MERCENARY TERRITORY
Lyrics by Lowell George
Is it the lies?
Is it the style?
It’s a mercenary territory
I wish you knew the story
Been out here so long
Dreaming up songs
I’m temporarily qualmless and sinking
I did my time in that rodeo
It’s been so long and I got nothing to show
Well, I’m so plain loco
Fool that I am I’d do it over again
Is it the lies?
Is it the style?
Is it the days into nights?
Or the “I’m sorry”s into fights?
Now there’s some kind of man
He can’t do anything wrong
If I see him again
I’ll tell him you’re waiting
‘Cause I’m devoted for sure
But my days are a blur
Well your nights turn into my mornings
I did my time in that rodeo
Fool that I am I’d do it over again
Is it love that keeps you waiting so long,
Makes you say “I’ll see you around”?
The forces that be, they just don’t see
While my nights turn into your mornings.
Is it the lies?
Is it the style?
Is it the days into nights?
Or the “I’m sorry”s into fights?
Two things. I think you would enjoy taking the words back into their indo-european roots and contemplate on the lives and cultures of so many people which we can only dimly discern through the survival of their language (in highly modified form). Two you should be proud you were able to keep your stuff, I have not been able to do so.
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ReplyDeleteStuff, good stuufff
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Stuff. A box full of books. Maybe two boxes or three. Delivered to you last summer. Did you happen to notice if Stanley Karnow's "Vietnam, a history", was in one of those boxes? I think it was your book, not mine.
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