Moving is great way to rid yourself of crap you just don’t need. It gets you into the mindset of questioning whether or not you really need that little wooden hand carved cat you bought from the road side shack in the Nations in Arizona 23 years ago. Or the collection of Star Trek TNG recordings you made on VCR tapes, when you no longer own a VCR. Throw out that old crap. It makes room for all the new crap you will acquire.
Moving out to California, I chose to live in a great location and I sacrificed on space. My apartment in Mountain View could fit in the living room of my condo here in Wilmington. Saying that, you may understand that a great deal of my crap filtering was done in California. If there is no space to put out a trinket or trophy, then there is little chance of the acquisition of a great deal of crap. Your home is your crap filter. It catches all your stuff. Moving from a smaller place to a larger place, I have found myself seeing bare walls for the first time in a while. In Cali, my walls were covered in photos, art and… well… crap. Here my walls are vast and empty. I feel compelled to put photos everywhere, because I am not used to the ‘empty space.’
In trying to deal with the compulsion I have to ‘fill the empty space,’ I am reminded of something saxophonist David Sanborn said about music and how he fights his compulsion to always be playing some form of a note during a song. He said he realized that the part of the song where there is no note, is just as important as the part were there is one. To negate the part that has no note, is to devalue it. Remember the person who wrote that piece of music WANTED that break there. The sentence structure of the song has to have it there, otherwise it is a different song. It is a song. It has ebb and flow. There should be ‘empty spaces.’ But they are not really empty.
I am dealing with my empty spaces, and writing my new song. While it is has a different beat and tempo than what I had before, it is still my piece of orchestral art.
Why did I call this blog “broke?” Because in hanging pictures I have had my cordless drill out and about the condo. Last night it was laying on the floor and as I walked from my huge kitchen past the vast, empty walls into my cavernous living room, I accidentally kicked it and broke the fourth toe on my right foot.
Art is painful.