Have spent the past few weeks working and getting my apartment together. Tomorrow I'll get a couch, which will (hopefully) spur me into taking pictures to post here. You can just imagine all the pictures/art on the walls. It's good to stretch your mind every now and then. You will not, however, have to imagine all the books and DVDs I have. Arranged alphabetically, or partial-autobiographically. Maybe you'll want to wonder why I chose to do things the way I did, but I predict you'll mostly just be happy to have something to look at.
There are gerberas in the vase. Enya on the stereo. Crap all over the floor, and pieces of nostalgia everywhere. What an old cliche, but moving is a history lesson in your own life. The Magnolia DVD I sort of stole from an ex-roommate. The Caviar CD my aunt for me as a Christmas present from the Sam The Record Man store that used to be on Yonge in Toronto, my first trip to Toronto. The can of Swift Premium Cooked Ham I won for participating in late night improv at the Plaza Theatre in Kensignton (I think I was there with the ex-roommate whose DVD I stole). Posters from first year rez that hung on my walls and are now in frames. The ugly fake-porcelain angel I can't bring myself to part with because it was a gift from retired priests, my first real nursing experience. A hand-carved Love Spoon brought back from Scotland by someone I used to love.
So now, the more I think of it, I guess my whole place actually is arranged autobiographically. Especially considering the things I've purposefully (and accidentally) thrown away over the years that might have had meaning. Or that had too much meaning.
I like to pride myself on not having clutter. This apartment is thus become me in a concentrated form.
So while it's not an original thought, I speculate at the reaction I have when I walk into other poeples' places. What does their apartment say about them? What will people think who see my apartment for the first time? What will you think when I (eventually) post pictures of it?
And this all reminds me so much of residence at the University of Alberta. In residence, your room is the only space upon which you can vomit yourself onto the walls. I'll concede that it may not be the only place, but it's certainly the easiest. Generally, people got annoyed when you'd leave your things lying around in places outside your room. So I think back, and remember how beyond obvious this observation was. Seeing someone's room told you a lot, especially when you were meeting new people. I remember meeting a friend for the first time while her dad and her fixed up a set of Ikea shelves in her room. Attempting so furiously to guerilla-clean another friend's bathroom that the ordeal ended in an argument. Wanting to wrap myself in a boy's bed because the smell was so comforting to me, and being able to walk that room with my eyes closed I knew it so well. No matter which year he lived in it.
I've misplaced the remote and the FM antenna for my stereo. Some CD cases have nothing in them. I haven't figured out where to put the odd things, like the lab coat and the purple 1988 Olympic flag. There's a picture frame lying face down on the floor, filled with pictures of friends I don't talk to anymore and memories I'm coming to terms with. A hand-carved Scottish Love Spoon beside me that I cannot part with but conflicts me all the same.
I've finally found a space. In the middle of Canada, surrounded by sky.
Sigh. Sentimental blogging = must be a Monday night.
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