Two Bags

Title does not have anything to do with a store we passed yesterday in the Washington somethingorother mall called LOVESAC.

Two bags was this morning's idea for tunneling out. Making coffee I decided to purloin the giant Hefty bags, the black ones that have been under the kitchen sink for five years, take the whole crushed box and methodically fill up two each day and drive them across the river to Waste Management. This includes the books and mementos. Yesterday morning I sat on the couch and thought, what would I keep? Maybe the coffee table, and the couch (good for sleeping at first), the Le Creuset 8-quart Dutch oven he gave me two years for Christmas, you can cook anything in this, you can cook a big chicken in it! Within months of getting the Dutch oven, I saw a magazine article from 1972, Joan Didion in her Malibu kitchen with the same one, anyway, I'd take it, but yesterday's image of loading other items into the smallest U-Haul and heading east, I've ditched that, plus the car is leased, and I don't want the car.

No one will notice me hauling bags away, and if they do, that's true to form, "she throws everything away." The contention that you may want it later, that never happens. I've not had anyone be particularly receptive to the idea that every item you have demands something from you, to be watered, to be dusted, to be read. I'll take maybe 10 books, my clothes, my hair dryer, the stand-up desk and what's on it.

The box turned out to have only one trash bag. It's now filled and in the 20-yard dumpster of the new neighbors across the street. The new neighbors next door moved out yesterday for four months while their house is renovated. Two dumpsters within steps seems like collusion.

I told him yesterday, "I am never coming back to this mall." I'd only been there twice before but yesterday's Christmas mania made the place especially otherworldly and unnecessary, the pear-shaped salesman and his spa tubs plunked in the causeway is the last person you'd have reason to interface with, you feel for the guy, there is no way anyone will buy what he's selling, or maybe these is, it's ten days before Christmas and people have ideas: that this will make him happy, it will be a place for her to slip into at the end of day; it will be one more anchor.