Innumerable Attachments

Owning and forgetting things

The first apartment I rented in the United States was memorable and unremarkable. It was a rectangular box that was indistinguishable from all the other rectangular boxes in the building. The front door opened into a parking lot, motel-style. It smelled of the worries and elevated cortisol of previous renters. The blankness of the apartment mirrored where my life was - alone in a new country, without any social or status markers to anchor me. Such blankness is used to gesture at a new beginning in storytelling traditions. A clean slate. A call to adventure. I didn't feel any of that. It was like I had been playing Age of Empires 2 and had progressed through the Dark Age, the Feudal Age, and found myself in the Castle Age. Then a power surge shut down my computer, I lost my saved game, and I was back in the dark ages again. This time, I could go through levels a bit faster. 

I was surprised by how little money was required to remove the blankness and replace it with things. Didn't matter what things - folding tables from Walmart, stacks of kitchen towels, white plate sets, a little rack for your plates to dry in the interlude between the dishwasher and the shelves, a futon that could be a bed if you didn't mind the iron rod sticking into your back. For a while I collected cardboard boxes that other things came in. The boxes come in all types of shapes and sizes. The most secure job in America belongs to the guy who makes cardboard boxes. We never run of things to put in them around here. 

The acquisitive nature of life here and my lack of attachment to objects has become a boon for the economy. It started with the pens and yellow notepads I'd buy as a little treat when I went to the supermarket. It's only got worse since. Now I buy everything in twos - the first time when I need it and the second time when I forget I already have it. There's two of everything in my restroom cabinet and under the kitchen sink. Sometimes, I try to give them away, but then people tell me they already have too many things. 

I started smoking sometime in the last three years and now there are lighters everywhere - under the car seat, in the bathroom, inside the little pen holder that I never use, and with other people I lend a lighter to who forgot to give it back. There is a network of people walking around that I have accidentally gifted lighters to. I long for one of them to materialize out of thin air when I rummage through my pant pockets and pat my chest with an unlit cigarette dangling from my lips. 

There is a boring abundance here. It's not the kind of abundance that spiritual practitioners wax on about, not the kind that will help you transcend the suffering and mundanity of everyday life. It's the kind of abundance that allows you to have unopened boxes from the last time you moved apartments. 

Camille tells me that lipstick sales go up when there's a recession. It's a small item that satisfies the urge to buy something discretionary without spending much. It's called the Lipstick effect. I'm always on the lookout for small items on sale now - to understand what the status of the economy is. The other day, I noticed that the gas station sold gold-plated military knives for 20 dollars. It did not look like you could cut fruit with it. It was inside a glass case with a sticker that said "no returns and no refunds." The knife looked sinister and frivolous - like the person buying it needed it for emotional security. Either that or they didn't care about the violence it could affect. I take that it's a sign of the times.