Kurt R.A. Giambastiani

This is not a political post.

Judging by the title, you can be forgiven for thinking that it was. But nope; this is definitely not a political post.

It is, however, about purges.

For the past few weeks, I had to put writing on the back burner while I dealt with more pressing needs, one of which was rebuilding my office space. Pursuant to recent events, I am now a “100% remote worker” (as my company likes to label us) and my old setup—a cheap old scarred corner desk with a hutch that only allowed room for a small monitor—wasn’t going to cut it. Neither was the accretion of a decade’s worth of paraphernalia and papers that had grown out from the corners and bookshelves onto the floor, a collection that included:

• a violin, viola, and music stand, recently renovated;
• an artist’s palette case, brushes, plus a small crate box of paints that used to belong to my father;
• a couple pairs of binoculars, none of which have very good optics;
• piles of research notes on topics such as Old Seattle, my genealogy, and how to repair fountain pens;
• several stacks of books, some to-be-read, some being-read.

All that, plus a few boxes of junk and books and pictures I’d brought home from the cubicle I’d occupied for twenty years.

It took me a week to tear down the old desk. The new one I intended to install was an L-shaped affair with cabinets, room for two monitors (I use graphical tools for work, and the laptop screen is way too small), a pullout keyboard drawer, and a larger and slightly higher desktop which makes it perfect for longhand writing and note-taking. However, since it had a larger footprint than my old one, some of the furniture on either side had to move first, and in order to move those pieces, I first had to move aside all the junk and stuff that lay about.

In short, I was in need of a purge.

Why am I writing about this?

Simple. You might need a purge, too.

I’m a pretty sentimental guy. I’m the sort of guy who keeps a beach-worn pebble because it reminds me of that week out on the rez at La Push, who has a box stuffed with old ticket stubs, who has a t-shirt that no longer fits emblazoned with the name of a ballet company that no longer exists as a memento of pivotal times in my life. I also keep notes, letters, articles, maps, books, steno pads, longhand drafts, journals, and scraps of paper with odd ideas, themes, titles, and thoughts. My hobbies of repairing fountain pens, old clocks, and pocket watches are supply- and equipment-dense, as are my still-to-learn hobbies of drawing and painting.

I went through all this stuff, the accretion disk of my history and experiences, and considered the value of keeping it. Any of it.

I had letters from people I never communicate with, user manuals for equipment I no longer have. I had bill receipts going back years and check registers for accounts long closed. It was ridiculous. Most of it hadn’t seen daylight in a dog’s age. I hadn’t looked at any of it in a decade, and when I got downright honest with myself, I had to admit that I probably never would. As for my heirs, well, they sure as shootin’ won’t want any of it.

So, everything was on the chopping block. It was a bittersweet process. It was a leave-taking, a farewell to parts of my life that no longer exist, and was simultaneously both sad and freeing.

• I kept love letters from three women, but recycled the rest.
• I kept cords and peripherals, but only for equipment I still use.
• If I found a memento for which I couldn’t (ironically) remember its origin, it went out the door.
• Office correspondence was limited to the past two years and no more; everything else was recycled or burned.
• All nonfiction titles were reviewed for currency. No point keeping a book for programming languages no one uses.
• Hobby equipment was culled and boxed up for better storage.

About half of what I’d been holding on to is now gone, and the other half is in a cabinet, on a shelf, in a drawer, or in the closet. The floor is once again visible

What went out the door was fear and sadness. Holding onto things because “That might come in handy” was my way of battling the fear born of years without finances, food, or security. The ancient letters and souvenirs of places I can’t recall were limned by the sadness of things lost, weighed down with regrets made heavy by the passing years.

It was all baggage, flotsam littering my personal shores.

Think about the boxes you have in the attic, the crates in your basement, the parcels hidden in the back of your closet. If they don’t bring you joy, if you never pull them out to remember, relive, reconnect, what is their purpose? Do you need them? Do you even want them?

I’ve regularly done purges, of clothes, of kitchen gadgets, and yes, (gasp!) even of books (usually to make room for more), but this was the first purge I’d ever done of me. It was illuminating, and it was educational.

I’m not “better” for it—I’m the same as before—but I feel better for it. I feel more independent, unfettered.

Maybe you will, too.

k