Hi to all. This post is about stuff. Stuff, although forced on us through the hulking power of capitalism, can hold so much meaning. We are taught through advertisements and propaganda of really every make and model that we are what we have. I, unfortunately, am not immune to this narrative. I love to see other people’s stuff. To sift through another person’s belongings feels like rummaging through their brain somehow. To see another person’s possessions is intimate, little secrets and stories and desires can reveal themselves.
For example, when I went through my grandma’s room after her death I couldn’t help but feel like I was reading her journal. Old love letters from my grandfather tucked away, about 40 watches, so many jewelry boxes brimming with both costume and precious metals, piles of pantyhose, and stashes of vermilion eyebrow pencils in every drawer. My mom’s baby clothes carefully folded and nestled into brown paper bags. It felt so sneaky, and eventually entirely overwhelming, to see all of this evidence of her most tender insecurities, of her desire to be beautiful, of all of this love she had.
We each have our Stuff Style. For example, my dad’s type of stuff is gray and technology and rusty tools and tangled cords and open circuit boards that look like little cities and soldering irons, and it’s all on the kitchen table pretty often. My mom’s stuff is brightly colored and tightly patterned and it’s pillows but recently it’s bamboo yoga pants from sustainable clothing purveyors and a dark wood table and white placemats that we aren’t allowed to spill on. Our style can change. My brother’s stuff is essentially my dad’s stuff but more LED-lit-up keyboards and less guitars.
Now, let’s talk about MY STUFF. I would (indulgently) describe my Stuff Style as earnest, Waldorf, wholesome, light wood, handmade, ceramic clutter. Gnome chic. Beeswax jungle that dreams are made of.
I enjoy having good items and, while I am aware that that is a direct symptom of a brain infiltrated by capitalism, I still can’t help myself when a little trinket comes my way. Sue me but also please, and I can’t emphasize this enough, do not sue me. Here are some items I like:
Number one: A giant basket that my dad brought my mom to show her he loves her so much.
Number two: Our OLD kitchen table. Okay, so it might be alarming that I capitalized old. Oops! Sorry! Didn’t mean to alarm! I was making a point! The table is gone. My mother gave it away because she HATES ME. Okay, she doesn’t hate me she likes me and even loves me. Regardless of the nuances of our relationship, she got rid of this gorgeous linoleum gray table with these thick sturdy legs. Chunky metal legs that always felt so cold when they brushed my calf as I scooted in for breakfast. My mom gave the table to her cousin, Kelly. I hope you’re happy, Kelly. I hope you’re happy (For the record I do hope Kelly is happy she’s really this great lady who says the word rad a lot in a soothing way). In the 1998 film “The Big Lebowski” there is the same table as the one I just talked about. Right up there a few lines up is where you can find a reference to this table.
Number three: My plants. Perhaps unoriginal but genuinely why is unoriginal bad? Community. It’s community. My plants make me safe.
They watch over me with their looming yellow plant eyes when it’s dark enough for monsters in the closet.
Chlorophyll politicians lobbying and posturing for the best slice of indirect sunlight. Even when I’m wrapped up so tightly in the suffocating linen duvet of deep deep sadness I have to unwrap myself for a moment to listen. To tend. To take care of. To fill up a red round pitcher of water and a striped white watering can. To pour the silky water into their dirt that swirls into momentary chocolate milk. Then chocolate pudding.
Then dry again. Yellowing leaves and browning leaves and falling leaves gently chastise me as they wind their way to the beige carpet. Take care of us. Love us. And I do.
I cherish a new unfurling shiny leaf like a small miracle. Life! Persisting! Proof that growth takes time and energy and waiting and stretching and figuring out.
That whole sort of poem thing about plants was a prank unless you thought it was good. Was it good? Am I pretty? Are you mad at me? (I’m afraid this is all bad. That fear just crawled into my belly hot and sharp and poking around.)
Number four: My grandma's armchair. It’s green and sort of hideous. It squeaks when you rock back and forth. I always smack it into the elliptical on accident because they’re too close together. Ellipticals and armchairs grow well together in the living room because the armchairs can climb the stalks of the ellipticals. You would know that if you picked up a book every once in a while.
Number five: This little duckie. I stole it from a store in Solvang California. It’s so small that it felt free. Does that make sense? It felt free. I keep it in my purse now as a little treasure and a bonus or blooper if I ever get asked by Vogue or even a friend to do a What’s In My Bag. I can be like “Oh, I have this little guy” while I laugh in a cool way. I’ll then tell my story about stealing and then do a Duck Reveal which is when I show the director of the Vogue YouTube channel or even a hushed crowd at a dinner party the duck itself. Both will cheer. The crowd and the director will both cheer for this duck. Trust me. Not for any duck, but for this one.
Number six: My dirty laundry bin. Not so stunning of an item but MY GOD is that thing useful! It’s whicker.
I think I feel finished talking about stuff now. Goodbye! Tell me about your stuff if you want to, I don’t mind.