Of Stuff And Three Questions

This past weekend I made my monthly trek back to The Ranch for a house check in and stopping in to various people. My Aunt continues to do well for someone who is undergoing chemo and almost died last year, which is encouraging (and honestly, a major reason for me to continue to go back).  I pulled down a couple of hanging signs The Ravishing Mrs. TB had indicated we should keep.  And stopped by to see Uisdean Ruadh.

Over an Angry Orchard Cider (pretty good stuff!), we chatted about this and that - one of the "this and that" things being, of course, the eventual sale of The Ranch and the high likelihood that the Cabin may no longer be for rent.  He has been working on alternatives and as we discussed those alternatives, he mentioned that he was in the process of organizing and in some cases getting rid of things like books which, although he enjoyed (and has a large collection of paperbacks dating to the 1960's from his father), he simply is not likely to get back to look at again.

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I have written before on the challenge that I have found and am finding with my relationship with "stuff" in my life, especially after relocating to a small current living arrangement.  1.5 years into that arrangement, I do not know how much "better" I have gotten with it.

Arguably I have managed to "slow down" the incoming amount of things, handy in an era where the cost of things continues to increase, and driven mostly by a combination of time (I really do not have the time of pick up more than I have going on now) and the space to put or do them in.  

But "not bringing more in" does not change the fact of "the amount of things I still currently have".

Part of this as a driving factor is simply the experience with my parents' house, where in the end we essentially had to outsource the getting rid of stuff (after we took what we wanted), partially due to the sheer overwhelming nature of the amount of stuff.  That is not something I would like my heirs to have to deal with.  The other thing - frustrating to me who likes a level of order in things - is simply that I do not like piles and stacks (almost as much as I loathe the idea of too many drawers or closets:  they are just places to put things out of the way to forget them).

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At some point, assuming all things remain equal and things do not completely fall apart economically, the apartment is a temporary place and we will have a more permanent home somewhere.  And hopefully that home will effectively be "the home" until such a time as I do not need one at all. I would dearly like that relocation to not be a "dumping all the things from here into there" without some kind of forethought as to what stays and what goes.

If the example of my elders is any indication, there is less and less need for "things" beyond the basics of living as one goes.  Things tend to remain because they either have nostalgia value or they are simply not thought of anymore.  My goal is to try to do something a little more than ridding myself of things via inertia.

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It occurs to me that it might be worth making a goal out of seeing how much I can unburden myself of in a year.  That is not a strong commitment, but it is something worth considering: what if I made a solid commitment to a combination of "Buy Nothing January" for the whole year (or as near as I could) and "Get Rid of as much as I can" over the same period of time?

There are only three questions needed:  Do I use it now?  Will I ever use it?

And the most challenging of all, Am I strong enough to let it go?

A Year Of Humility (XIL): Depression

 This past week I have been severely out of sorts, with a depression that I have not experienced in some years.

It came on me as I left work for no reason that I could discern. It followed me through at the gym, which was a miserable affair of me doing the "work" I had committed to doing when I showed up, and then completely overcame me when I got home.  Dinner was a lazy affair of comfort food; I was in bed by 2000.

It might seem like an odd topic, humility and depression.  But I think there is value in admitting all of our emotions in the practice of humility. One of them is simply sometimes I get depressed.

Depression has certainly entered the mainstream a great deal more than when I first had to deal with it as a teenager. That is good in that it is both acceptable and okay to say "I am depressed".  I do wonder if it is also bad in the sense that, being something that is commonly batted about, we lose some of the urgency and poignancy that should come along with addressing it. It can become something that we simply go get a prescription for or sign on once a week for our virtual counseling appointment - not there is anything wrong with either of those; what I am concerned about is a familiarity that ultimately ignores the actual condition.

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One of the things that I have found comforting in my Monday night Men's group (my regular group, not the short-term one I am leading) is the fact that we are incredibly honest about our feelings.  That strikes me as a very unusual thing in the modern world: I am never likely to mention to coworkers that I am in a depression and quite possibly not to family or friends that I speak with occasionally (although my family undoubtedly knows).  It is only in this group that I somehow feel that I can discuss such things.

Why is that? I am not sure, really - in this case these are men that I have known for a little over a year and seen once a week only.  And yet there is a robustness in our conversations, an honesty, that makes such communications possible.

And humility, of course.  It takes a lot of humility in a modern culture that only pushes that things are always okay to be able to admit that they are not.

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The depression will pass - it always does of course, I have lived long enough to know that "now" is not "forever".  But the humility to admit that I have depression is something I have to remind myself to practice every day. 

After all, I have to remind myself that I am not the only one that does so and that some other person may need the example of someone humble enough to admit their depression to be able to admit their own.

Life With A And J

One of the things I find myself very grateful for are A the Cat and J the Rabbit.

We have a daily routine now.  After I get up at 0500, I open the door where A the Cat it sitting outside, waiting for me.  We go to the alternative bedroom - really The Rabbit's Room, who am I kidding - and open the cage for J the Rabbit, who will hop out and head to the living room, where she hop around for the better part of an hour until breakfast time.

The same sort of thing happens when I get home from work:  A is standing at the door yowling for all he is worth when I come in.  He gets fed, then J gets her dinner and open cage door where she can run around more or less until it is time for bed.

As I have been more own my own of late than usual, I am grateful that they are here.  They certainly give me something to look forward to coming home to.

(J at her veterinary appointment yesterday for a check up and vaccination. She is in great health and the vet was very happy.)

 

Pets.  We do not really deserve them.

The Pumpkin Spice Season

 It would not be the season of Autumn with the Pumpkin Spice Guinea Pigs:

This is the sort of random silliness we are so desperately in need of.

The Collapse CCVIII: Full Faith And Credit

 19 December 20XX+1

My Dear Lucilius:

One of the practices Pompeia Paulina and I have been doing on a regular basis is a rotating cycle review of things. We go room by room, storage place by storage place. On the one hand it may seem a bit morbid – after all, we are counting down things like food and other supplies. On the other, it is fairly interesting what memories get randomly triggered by an item.

In this case, it was a silver dollar.

Not just any silver dollar: an 1879 Morgan Silver dollar, likely one of the first silver coins I came into. Its acquisition is burned into my brain.

It happened before the turn of the century, when I was a lowly college student working in my cousin’s convenience store. A kid came in – maybe 18, maybe not, who could tell – with a fistful of coins to buy a pack of cigarettes.

I was used to this: my cousin’s store was on the edge of the “appropriate” part of town, and we had more than our share of experience dealing with ragged bills, piles of pennies and nickels, and grubby food stamps (the first time in my rather innocent middle class life I had seen them). He asked for the cigarettes – likely Camels or Marlboros, that was what everyone smoked – and I started counting out the change.

And there it was: a big, fat, Morgan Silver dollar.

I had the wisdom not to raise a fuss about it, but definitely made sure that it was included in the pile of coins that went into the till. I gave him the cigarettes and shoved back the change. He pocketed it and left; I carefully removed the Silver dollar and replaced it with a paper one from my wallet.

It was in fine condition, a little discolored but not worn, quite likely from a relative’s coin stash that may or may not have known their collectible went up in smoke (as it were). And though I waited, no-one came back looking for it.

This was the first of many silver coins that I acquired over the years of working there and beyond, the results of careful attention paid to change. Over time I acquired a very small hoard, dollars from years past of women with torches walking and quarters and dimes and half dollars with mythical or historical figures on them. Some were worn, some were as good as the day they were coined.

That eventually ran out of course, as I got older and dealt with coins on a less frequent basis and silver coins became a commodity that were sought after; I do not believe I have seen a random silver coin in the last 25 years or more.

I held it there in my hand, feeling the solidity and the weight, watching the light catch the bas relief of the woman’s face. This coin was easily over 100 years old. It was minted, I found out once upon a time, in Philadelphia and was the least valuable of such coins, perhaps fetching 100 times its face value once upon a time. And now it sits here, in a pouch where it is easy to get to if we should need it. As if there was any need for it now.

I cannot eat this coin, Lucilius. I cannot plant it and grow something from it. The bees can make no use of it and the quail cannot nest in it. I could, I suppose, melt it down and make something else out of it. What though? A bullet? We have few werewolves in this part of the world. A piece of art? It is already a piece of art, something far more beautiful in its current form than I could craft myself.

I keep it, as I keep all of my coins, as a hedge against a day where things that are not of direct survival use will have value. If such a day will ever come.

They could be coins from the times of Vikings for all that it matters. Even then they would have no more true “value” than they do now, paperweights and historical markers of an era and economy long gone.

Your Obedient Servant, Seneca

2025 Cambodia And Vietnam: Food Tour II

 What is a tour without the exotic?  In this case, fried insects?

For the record, fried crickets taste like nuts.  Friend grasshoppers, not nearly as good - bitter aftertaste.

We also went to a Night Market.  All kinds of things were offered here.  It was the first time I had seen a wet market.

The fruit selection in Cambodia and Vietnam is a tropical fruit lovers dream.  Jack fruit, in this case.

2025 Cambodia And Vietnam: Food Tour I

 One of the things The Ravishing Mrs. TB likes to do when we are in a foreign country is take a local food tour. I have to admit that the idea has grown on me: besides being a good way to get out in a more localized way, it exposes us to food that we often will not get on the larger tour.  And so, the evening of the day of our Street Art Tour, we met up with a group and our same tour guide, got in a Tuk-Tuk, and ventured off.

A note:  I am having to recreate these via memory and a link on Cambodian Cuisine, so any inaccuracies are from me.

Cambodian Fried Spring Rolls:

Khmer Noodles.  Greens are served on a plate and added to taste or desire:

I believe these are Nom Pao, Cambodian Stuffed Buns.

A form of eggs, I think.  Placed into the lettuce leaves and eaten like a small taco.