Boxes and Boxes and Boxes of Crap

I have been the worst kind of pack rat for as long as I can remember. It doesn’t take a crystal ball to clearly see my future as a crazy old cat lady surrounded by piles of old magazines and boxes of weird objects. Being an “imaginative” (see also: slightly insane) crafter has always been one of the primary reasons for hoarding. Magazines can’t be thrown away because they can be used for collages. Worn, stained t-shirts might be too gross for Goodwill but they make nice rags, and the unstained bits can always find their way into a quilt. Then there’s the more unusual odds and ends.

I tend to be a bit nomadic, which is at odds with my inability to part with material possessions. When packing my belongings, I begin months before the actual move. And inevitably, in the last week, I find myself staring down a strange conglomeration of totally random and seemingly useless objects. A bent fork, a piece of silver rope, a pile of dominoes. So I grab a cardboard box, label it miscellaneous, and transport it to my new domain.

Though moving rarely happens more than once a year, this process also happens on a smaller scale every single time I clean. Small piles of bits and baubles gather on the corner of a night stand, only to be dumped into some nearby decorative box.

Though my initial intention is to use that poker chip on a scrapbook page, or give this profane plastic pencil topper as a gag gift, usually it just doesn’t happen. The boxes themselves remain intact, and have become their own collection. After years squirreling these “boxes of miscellany” I read a feng shui article that said the first and most important way to achieve good chi flow is cleaning out the clutter. The last 9 months of my life definitely indicate some serious blockages in my chi arteries. Time to open the little treasure troves and admit they are really boxes of junk.

I have to confess I am averse. Sure there’s my usual issue of fearing change. But also there’s an artistic composition to some of these boxes. Take out the contents, lay them out, and there seems to be a story. Sometimes it might be a confusing story, like why is there a purple plastic lobster next to an old retainer, but still it does ignite the imagination.

So, as I am prone to do when unable to preserve something physically, I am photographing a small sampling of these “boxes of miscellany” so that at least some documentation remains. Stock piling digital images is a bit more reasonable. And I don’t think it’s as likely to clog my chi.

Introduction to Crap

The first time I used a dictionary, I was looking up the definition of “parrot”. It was grade school, and I was faced with the mysterious task of writing an essay, long before I knew what an essay was. Using a tidbit of Meriam-Webster wisdom as an introduction seemed genius. It was years later in college when I was taught this is considered the most horrid, trite way to begin a written work. More stale than month old white bread. More over-used than a town bicycle. But then again, I’ve always had a soft spot for that sort of crap.

Now when I decided to begin this blog the same way, I was sad to discover that all the internet dictionaries had for me was that crap is nonsense. Although that’s not a bad start, it’s a piss-poor summary. Immediately my mind was popping with witticisms. Sure, crap is one of those vague, catch-all words, but its versatility rivals that of the most overused colloquialisms and the most versatile cuss words. The crap we say, the crap we do. The crap we buy, the crap we believe. The crap on the bottom of our shoes, the crap we eat, the crap in our plumbing. The crap we crap, the crap we love. The crap I give, the crap I get. Crap is not just nonsense, crap is useless and plentiful. Crap is filthy and stinky as well as plastic and overpriced. We say “crap” when the situation is not serious enough to warrant “shit”. We feel like crap when crap happens to us.

This blog is about the crap in my life. I am a pack rat, compulsively collecting and surrounding myself with collections of crap. I am a poet, continuously spouting nonsensical crap that is meant to show off my vocabulary and make people confused or amused. I am a photographer, always searching for and manifesting crazy crap to capture, to frame, to display. And I am also a patient, one for whom the act of crapping has never been simple, and has often been uncomfortable, urgent, and irregular. Life is all about the crap in it. And my life is full of crap.