Imagine owning just 75 things?

Every winter or summer break since beginning college I have set out to clean my room, organize my life, throw out/donate/sell the hell out of everything. This endeavor generally lasts one or two days and afterward I commence watching whole seasons of TV shows in single sittings. It's a trifle upsetting. The last time I made any headway I managed to put my books in boxes. 

I just want to really accomplish something this time. Already I am trying to be quite merciless with my wardrobe, but the longer I keep at it the less resolve I can hold onto. Mostly I struggle not from my own sentimentality but of the sentimentality I should probably(?) have. Take for instance the collection of t-shirts accumulated from school events from middle school to the present day. There are too many of them and most are hideous. I haven't the least desire to put on a t-shirt to remind myself of that time I was in the musical production Cinderella in 6th grade, but if I throw the shirt out my mom will certainly yell at me. Of course, I can just throw out all the shirts secretly, can't I? Ah, but then I'll have to feel guilty. And what about the "I <3 Douglass" shirt I was given on move-in day freshman year? etc.

Other items I'm on the fence about: mix tapes from former friends (nothing like finding thoughtful things from people who are no longer in your life to make you feel a little bit awful) and birthday cards (just feels so wrong to throw them out)

It does not help that my family holds onto everything.
My dad's job as a collector/seller of stuff means he's a hoarder by trade.
I have never seen my mother get rid of a single article of clothing or pair of shoes, but she is perpetually coming into new clothes and shoes.
To quote myself from this morning, "JR does not throw anything out whatsoever ... except his report cards. OHH SNAP" (it's true) (like, he refuses to even throw out the damn packaging to anything he buys. What the hell is he doing with the empty boxes and plastic?)
**The only exception to this family of hoarders is my grandmother. When she lived with us about ten years ago the house was all the better for it. That lady threw out everything. This includes my grandfather's dentures, on accident, but such is a small price to pay for an organized and clean home.

I have been working to simplify my life as much as possible for some time now. I like it. It's like a game. Do you know how enthusiastically I lived out of a suitcase for three months this summer? I should clarify--one slim suitcase small enough that it qualifies as a carry-on (sans any expandability), a crossbody purse, and a longchamp tote bag. To carry everything (clothes, shoes, my laptop, my camera...) for three months. I went over there with all of two pairs of shoes--white sandals and a pair of converse. I just crossed my fingers that I could get away with sandals at operas and plays.
When traveling I hate having too much. I would much rather find under prepared than over prepared. Even so I might have taken it too far this summer, but I felt crazy, adventurous and admirable all at once. I was constantly wearing the same outfits and had to find inventive ways to "mix it up" which involved scarves primarily. Scarf around neck! Scarf as headband! Scarf as head wrap (esp. in mosques in Turkey, obvs.)!

(Given the choice of characteristics that somewhat betray my gender I would still choose the two I already possess: I pack really lightly for a girl. And I drink a lot of beer for a girl. If you wish to flatter me, just comment upon either of those things.)

Years and years ago I read the book The Gospel According to Larry, about this quirky, yoga-practicing, Walden-reading wizkid who starts a website to preach little sermons against consumerism. He also keeps all of his possessions numbered and refuses to let the total count exceed 75. How great is that? I wanted to be that kid. I still want to be that kid, in terms of having a startlingly small amount of possessions, but I can't get on board with his stance against brand names. I'm still a sucker for that nonsense. Like Kate Spade bags, I go nuts for 'em. Anyway, just now I did a quick search for that book (so feel like rereading it) but came up empty, so I'll have to look more thoroughly tomorrow. Did find Walden though.

Happy Shannakuh, A Gift Buying Guide

This shirt is probably the most accurate shirt-form representation of who I am as a person. Except not really, because a couple weeks back I ordered a Ron Swanson "pyramid of greatness" t-shirt off the NBC website. I've got that waiting for me at home and I am stoked for it. So that might be the most accurate representation... well, eh, another codicil: If I were a shirt, I would probably just be any shirt that is a button-down or a plaid shirt (I just counted 10 such shirts hanging in my closet, meaning my button-downs outnumber my "going out" dresses by a slight margin of 10:0)... anyway, this shirt is obnoxious and I am in complete agreement with it. All I want is everything that I want, is that so much to ask for in life?

That said, here is a list of stuff I would buy and/or would love to be gifted to me.

1. Frye Harlow Strap boots, $360, frye.com

Pffft, I totally do not have 360 bucks to blow on boots. Yes, I have two "jobs" but that money goes towards fat sandwiches (the last one I bought was the "fat drunk" from Gio's: cheese steak, mozzarella sticks, chicken fingers, fries, honey mustard, BBQ sauce) and $5 happy hour cocktails at Clydz. So about once a week I go online and look at these boots and just imagine a montage of the next ten years of my life, me wearing these boots and clubbing in every metropolitan city of the world. I don't even wear heels ever, but these call to me in my sleep and waking hours and semi-waking, hours telling me "Shan, how hawt would you been in these boots? (*my inner voice has never actually been known to say "Shan, you look hawt") And how tall slightly closer to average-height would you be? And how worth it would the pain be?" I have basically never seen more perfect boots in my life and that said, I should probably just shut up and start saving money in a piggy bank. 

2. "An Illustrated Guide to Cocktails", shwaaat!, $16 + shipping, anthropologie.com

Actually I super need this book, I should probably just order it right now. It combines some of my favorite things, i.e. illustration (hence my not-creepy collection of children's books), historical information that's actually interesting, and drankz. Home-run hit right here.

 3. 'A Softer World' Magnet Set, $16 + shipping, topatoco.com

First off, if you don't read A Softer World, then you should probably correct that situation, and then you'll also know why this magnet set is ingenius. Do you know how much fun I would have putting my own pictures in the frame and constructing weird sentences (that will no-doubt include "zombie"...I somewhat famously go apeshit for zombies)? Here is the product description, which I strongly approve of: Put your own photos in, carefully select the words to accompany them. Ruin your relationships or make people unexpectedly fall in love with you! Heck, use pictures of Doctor Who, or Joseph Dreamboat-Levitt. What do we care? We're not the boss of you. Express yourself, there's not much time left! 

4. Posters, $-however much they cost I'm not looking this up, interwebzsomewhere (amazon?)

I have wanted a Little Miss Sunshine poster for about two years now. The pop of yellow would look great on my walls, I love the movie, and just look how fun of a poster it is? The running to get in the van? Come on. 

I also very much need an Arcade Fire poster, and I am particularly fond of the Neon Bible design. If my soul could produce music--I am talking about music to capture the very essence of my being--it would sound something like Arcade Fire. I am not a crazy person, but I have always been convinced that now and again in your life you hear music that sounds precisely like what you'd want your music to sound like if you were only talented and blessed enough in life to be able to make your own music. The last band I felt this about was the Japanese band Asian Kung-Fu Generation, and that was in 2008 maybe, I'm not sure. Oh, and if you are one of those people who actually has the ability to create the music of your soul, I have to kindly ask you to go screw yourself, because that's just not fair. Unless you are Arcade Fire, in which case my soul thanks you for the good work that you do.

5. Espresso Machine!!, $ depends on level of fanciness, but methinks the cheapest is $150, nespresso.com

I. Love. Espresso. I love it because, like me!!, cups of espresso are tiny and adorable but strong and get the job done :P. I'm sorry, that was uncalled for, I hate myself a little bit for having said that. Anyway, America does not love espresso. You understand now, why I can't stay here. (To be fair, Germany is equally bad as the US in their love for filter coffee. Disgusting.)

All I want is an automatic espresso machine that uses convenient capsules (like the Keurig coffee machine at home) so that I can have a wonderful cup of espresso erryday. But if I order this thing I'd have to get the capsules delivered, since stores don't generally carry them :( and I'm not really into that idea. But if I wanted an espresso machine it would have to be this capsule-using kind, because look, I like espresso, but I don't have the patience or desire to figure out how to manually brew my own. I once looked into what kind of beans and what sort of machine I'd have to get, and it just seemed like a hassle. In short, I'm a little conflicted but I still really want a nespresso machine.

This concludes the 10 minutes of selfish thought I allow myself every once in a blue moon  day half hour or so.

from the "Shan, don't kill yourself' paper writing playlist

(OK, all of the Torches album goes on this list)





Basically the common denominator here is energetic music that I won't get sick of after playing 2934834 times.

Here's to Papa Meisner

Currently my father is in Dublin. He left Tuesday and he'll be back on the 20th (still sooner than I'll be finished with final papers and my one exam). Last night at Queen's (free wing night; cold wings but I still ate six of 'em. Free wings, okay! Wings have been a pervading theme in my life this semester, God only knows why) I had a pint of Guinness hoping that at the same time my dad might be in a pub, just a little too buzzed from one too many pints of Guinness much tastier than mine, talking freely and too loudly with locals, as he is so inclined to do. It makes me incredibly happy that he's in Dublin right now, and I so hope he'll be able to make that side trip to London, where he's never been (in terms of Europe, he's only been to Germany, twice, and that was before I was born, and of course my family's trip to Dublin this past spring). My dad so adored Dublin, and he needs to see London. Everyone needs to see London.

Dad's friend has a home in Dublin, and he's been invited there repeatedly over the years but never took up the offer to go, until now. Somewhat filled with pride, I consider the fact that my influence is probably the reason he's gone this time. Well, who was to blame for pushing my family to travel abroad this year? Yours truly, of course. If there's one way I influence my family, or if there's any one way I'd like to influence them, it's to travel more. Why should I be the only spoiled one, after all? I tell them "Screw home improvements--yeah, our porch needs new stairs and we need a new stove and all that, but you're not going to be healthy enough to travel forever. You need to see the world." My mom's dying to see London and Paris and Venice, and my dad would be delighted to see all of Italy, especially Tuscany, and Greece. I want it so badly for them, too. Oh, my dream is that someday, someday sooner rather than later, I'd have a good job abroad somewhere and I could afford to send my parents to trips all over the world and trips to visit me. Oh please let me make bank someday.

So, I hope my father is living it up right now, getting into some mischief or at any rate enjoying not having to worry 'bout the missus, or his bratty kids. He fits in too perfectly in Ireland--he's a little guy (and they're generally small over there! As someone permanently child-height I appreciate that in a country [see: Portugal]), he knows the Irish folk songs, and he's far more inclined to sit in a pub talking history or griping over politics than perhaps any other activity in the world. In this regard I am so my father's daughter.

Update: supposedly my father called my mom asking for the recipe to make some Filipino dishes for a party over there. My dad so rarely cooks, and when he does it is certainly not Filipino food, so this is really quite astonishing and laughable (and, I can only assume, a testament to how pleasant a time he must be having, that this idea should strike him). I wonder now, a) if he went through with it, b) how terribad or surprisingly great did it turn out?

Head Games

What gets me through this semester of stress, of having neither enough time on my hands nor enough desire, is fantasy, sure. Sometimes I fantasize about getting new stuff (..the week I fixated on buying an e-reader or tablet). That sounds bad. But I imagine other things, like being in Tuscany, with the faintest tan (and I generally even disapprove of tans), nursing a glass of wine. Or, simply, being back in Berlin. I watch Anthony Bourdain: No Reservations and in a way it satiates that burning desire to be out there in "the world" (as though right now I'm not in it, but elsewhere), I become content, and yet sorrowful that the best I can do right now is watch that show. By the way, on separate occasions both Agata and Jackie watched a bit of Anthony Bourdain on TV, and just sort of confusedly remarked "he seems like such an asshole." I personally think he's hilarious and lovable, but what does that say about me, really?

The other thing I visualize, I long for, is being at home and having breakfast dates with my parents. I have the urge to speak to them as though I'm not just their daughter but a confidante. I want to talk to my dad about his estranged brother and how weird it was when we were invited to his cookout this summer. What did they talk about, anyway, when all the guests were gone and the food put away, sitting enshrouded in late summer nightfall, quietly, to themselves. Not like strangers, not like acquaintances and perhaps not like brothers--but I guess precisely like brothers. I want mom to lay out all her stresses and worries and speak in the voice, if only fleetingly, not of a mother, specifically my mother, but of an individual.

I want to have a lunch date with my brother because I worry about him and I love him and I see him enough, perhaps, but we don't speak enough. He's nineteen and I know he has some beautiful, maybe even tragic, wise thoughts in him. I suspect he secretly has the potential to be a poet. I admire the poetry about him, his firm stance against cursing (I think, further evidence of his poetic nature--why sully the world with foul language that voice foul thoughts?), the way he sometimes talks like an old man about "the good old days" and his childhood. I just wish that boy wasn't so damn selfish, though. For my parents sake I wish that.Then I have to wonder, am I any better? I'm equally selfish but I'm less of a source of stress just because they don't have to worry that I'm getting bad grades or won't graduate... I'm just a source of another kind of stress altogether, of course, traveling and all, being a girl in a dangerous world...

Fantasy, fantasy. Daydreams, made-up futures, re-played memories. The key to my escape is in my head, but the things that eat at me (everything: memories, the scary, stressful present, and projections of the future) are all in my head too. It's all in there, all of it, all the time. The answers are the problems, the problems are the answers.