Two days. Less than two days really. A thousand pounds of stuff I haven't needed in three years is due to arrive the day after next. I keep remembering what's coming in bits at a time: a poster tube, a box with two lamps, the first lamp I built, paintings and framed pictures, lots of videos. I'd like to say I'll just dispense with all of it, but it's not practical. At some point, I will need the dishes and silverware again; I will want my tools handy even if I'm not using them.
The two lamps can go, as can my old computer unless it still works and my mom wants it. Many videos will go: do I really need to save episodes of Lois & Clark? No. Just yesterday though, I remembered that a good chunk of videos are copies of my reel. My master is still sitting in a vault in Burbank, I suppose, just waiting for me to call up and order a case. Some things are hard to dismiss even if they're not a part of your life anymore. Just like the math texts from college resting on my shelf. They're laying flat, waiting for me to weed them, to get rid of at least some of them, but I can't bring myself to do it. It's that familiar yellow cover, indicative of some other life I had. Proof of it in all senses.
Diplomas have never seemed like much to me. The books, the notebooks in my handwriting- that's real, that's proof. As long as I need the tactile verification, it's going to be hard to part with things. Hopefully a ruthless mood will sweep over me, so I can dispense with some things without scrutinizing them too much, without getting sentimental.