DREAMS

Have a crate. Make yourself uncomfortable.

You only have to lose everything once to never want anything again. In the past, every move was about downsizing, only to replenish the household inventory with newer versions of what you had given away. It's a stupid cycle, especially for someone that's a minimalist. I'm not usually one for impulse purchases. But sometimes you need that two thousand dollar bass, or a semi-automatic crossbow. I didn't even own a proper bed until I was 50 years old. Disposable futons, baby. 

When my life finally felt stable after decades of yearly moves and job transitions, I splurged. I spent an ungodly amount of money for a Tempur-Pedic mattress and the proper frame to complement it. Fancy cookware, appliances, the works. My previous kitchen inventory had been simple: 

One each spoon, fork, knife, skillet, spatula, pan, French press, mug and microwave. Boom. 

I never even have any glassware. I drank everything out of the same water bottles I biked with, even cocktails. Then I bought a blender. I had never owned a blender. I was buying groceries. My fridge only ever had beer, or left over Chinese food in it. I'd hear laughter from the kitchen when friends were over grabbing drinks and find them taking pictures to show their wives. I was hardly poor. But I came around. During the COVID lockdowns, I couldn't eat out at the bar, or anywhere, really. My entire life was working from home, staying at home and going to the beach when I was feeling antsy. So I was cooking. 

Online grocery shopping is as dangerous as eBay after a few drinks. I was stoned and giddy adding everything that online recipes required and then some. I stuffed my fridge and freezer. Every recipe needed an Amazon order for the proper prep and cooking materials I didn't have. Yet. My kitchen was loaded.  And I got fat from pure, unadulterated glut. I went from eating once a day at lunch to sun-up, sun-down stuffing my face. I was smoking a lot of pot. I never smoked during work hours before, but screw it, I don't have to talk to anyone or look anyone in the eyes. Add booze and the body-ballooning process had begun. Then I broke my leg when I was drunk and on Molly. I was immobilized, trapped in my 2nd story apartment in a wheelchair. There wasn't an elevator.

I never had pictures up. When I was active in the past, home is where I slept, I lived outdoors. I brought a gal home one night after a party in DC and she said my apartment looked like a serial killer lived there. Not having family photos or art on the walls apparently suggested a kill room that I could leave behind in a pinch. Despite her perceived red flags, we fucked like rabid weasels all night.

So now I'm buying framed art and movie posters, I have pics of my kid and friends around the place, an enormous TV, couch, patio furniture for the balcony, I even bought a door mat that said Welcome. I never had a doormat. Laying that down was more significant than anything else for establishing roots. Shit. I really have a home. Not just a random box in a building where I lock my things away. 

Aside from the tear producing agony and pain of the first few hours of the day, I was more comfortable than I'd ever been in my life. The pain was from my leg that required reconstructive surgery - it was still healing. Friends would stop by for Happy Hour, bring me home cooked meals to add to the already monstrous amount of food I was consuming, we watched movies, played music. Who needs a jet setting lifestyle when you have the people you love around you. And it came crashing. I guess the timing worked out, because I was able to walk by then. The story's been told, but I was unemployed and facing homelessness, with nowhere to turn save some couch surfing. A brutal kick in life's nuts. Like I'd been set up by some mysterious demon to feel something akin to comfort. Comfort in my case was simply, finally, feeling at home somewhere. Only to deliver a gotcha sucker, that'll show you.

I had to give it all away. This time there wasn't a new place to refurnish, enjoy cold drinks from the fridge, or cook food. I was eating 69 cent canned soup cold, thankfully I kept my can opener, filling a Brita pitcher with water from a public bathroom sink and having to figure out where to take a crap in some peace. I still had money. Signing away my rights to sue the employer that canned me banked 20 grand to add to my savings, but I wasn't going to sign a lease not knowing if I'd still be unemployed, which I was for a long time. And so you let go of even the simplest dreams and fantasies, just like so much furniture and house goods. 

End of life plan: I will never buy a home. I will never have more than one each spoon, fork, knife, skillet, spatula, pan, French press, mug. No microwave. 

A pair of underwear for each day of the week +1 and the rest of my clothing as minimal as possible. I'll one-up my living situation to a van and drive back out to the desert Southwest. Hunger has no pride. I'll find a good church with a soup kitchen, hope to fend off cancer for at least a little while. Maybe Wawa will hire me p/t and I can take home whatever is left under the heat lamps at the end of the night. Dream the achievable.