Moving Shop

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Sitting Space

The notorious green couch: I found this couch within the first week of living in the house. As I was driving to work, I noticed the glint of the sun off of its plush green exterior, and a cardboard sign denoting its value; “free.” This piece of furniture spoke immediacy; it was a “must have.” Currently, it is located in the conversation room. It is positioned immediately below an art piece entitled “martial arts.” Noticing the bland nature of the freshly painted walls, I decided that I would take it upon myself to construct something to correspond with the long nature of this piece of furniture. Approximately a week later, I found found five pvc pipes of various lengths and decided to place them at different angles to one another. In this way, it is evident that the couch influenced the art piece. Correspondingly, the art work determines the position of the couch on this wall. I find that I orient much of my work in spatial relationship to the furniture which adorns each room.

 

Interacting with “home”

Well, we have been at the house approximately a month. Sitting in the “conversation” room, I slowly survey all of the items that we have collected. Each item contributes to both the way we live in the house, and the way that we interact with each other. While we are adapting to the new living conditions, our decisions are altered by that which we collect. The four couches that canvass the living room have determined its existence as a conversation room. The couches refuse the space typically alloted for television monitors, or stereo-systems. Although the conversation room was amongst preliminary plans for the house, the acquisition of the couches determined the fate of the room, and subsequently, the distracting speakers which the green couch displaced. It is like this throughout the entirety of the house. Chairs, art pieces, shelves, and various lighting fixtures alter what can be considered existence within the house. The next few posts will be dedicated to exploring this interaction with “home.”

 

Selling an Identity

Eventually, as the items I collect accumulate (and collect dust), I find that they come to substantiate a more significant part of my identity. Generally, this occurs as a result of the trends/patterns that develop. I never imagined that I would suscribe to the belief that you are what you own, but I can not help admonishing the increasing significance of my inventory.

The trends/patterns initially develop without much personal intelligence. It is not as though I decide to start collecting furniture, or old recording equipment. Rather, I collect that which is available at the moment. Eventually, I find that the choices I have made, the streets that I have driven down, etc., have encouraged, rather unconciously, the development of a particular collection. It seems that the items I collect become more significant at the point of realization; the point at which I survey the used equipment within my room, and decide or realize that I possess a collection.

Current Collections/Sets:

Obscure paintings/prints of old urban thoroughfares.

Late seventies/early eighties Teac recording equipment (including mixer boards and reel to reel).

Lighting equipment – lamps, flourescent bulbs, hanging lights, paper boxed bulbs

Tables of various assortments and sizes.

Tape/Vinyl

Once I realize the potential for a substantial collection, I initiate the process of developing and refining each collection. I begin searching for items that will fit within the categories/trends that have been identified and established. I listen to the music I collect, and read the books under the various lighted fixtures. These items propel a particular way of living, or at the very least, an idea about how I should proceed in life. The trends have encouraged me to seriously consider how that which I have collected has begun to effect my personal life, social interactions, and the way that I live.

Essentially, my collections have developed into a framework for proceeding. This is not simply involved in the way that I proceed on garbage collection nights, but more generally. Reading over a copy of Zen Mind, Beginner’s Mind, I can not help acknowledging the loss of ”beginner’s mind.” To paraphrase, the beginner’s mind is full of possibilities whereas the expert’s mind has few. It seems that conformity is one of the most significant issues to consider at this junction. Inevitably, I have developed what can be considered an “expert’s mind,” in relationship to the process of collecting trash. The choices I make conform to the choices that have already been made; to the collections that I realize. Zen Mind, Beginner’s Mind emphasizes the importance of retaining a beginner’s stance. This is intimately related to the amount of effort/passion that one that begins is willing to devote. Expert’s mind is both self affirming and debilitating. The concept of expert’s mind suggests something entirely comfortable/controllable.

Simply, in conforming to the standards/trends that have already been established, I refuse the opportunities which may arise. Undoubtedly, giving up this framework is a process that I will struggle with immensely. This is not only the result of the shear difficult of living with a beginner’s mind. The difficulty also results from how intimately each collection is connected to what I claim as Identity. Perhaps it is time that I sell or dispose of some of the items that I possess.

 

At the Races

One moves quickly, hesitating only briefly to purchase the appropriate charts and statistics. Then, it is up the escalator and out for the main floor stroll. The television monitors flash incessantly. There are statistics, times, pictures of thoroughbreds, photo opportunities, track conditions, and a plethora of other sensory stimuli that roll over the eyes as an overwhelming tide of what if’s…what race is it? who’s in the lead? I took too long in the parking lot. Race three is already over. Race three would have been my race. It should have been my race. I should have picked another track. The results are official. I refuse to acknowledge them. It is on to race four. Horse racing is driven by this anxiety. We all attempt to calculate the seemingly incalculatable. We question ourselves and the various conditions to absurdity.

The situation is entirely cramped/confined. We sit elbow to elbow, scanning the sheets, handicapping on scrap pieces of paper. We wait until the last possible moment, when the odds have been calculated most efficiently, we move. To the windows we migrate, shouting out track names, horse numbers, wager amounts, and wager types. Delta Downs. Race Seven. Horse Six. Ten Dollars to win.

The choice are numerous. Trifecta. Perfecta. Show. Place. Win. and every corresponding combination of the preceeding bet types.

Then, it is back to the tables, back to the loose cigarettes, back to the television screens. The race begins, the shouts bellow forth from the seething tide, and the horses dance their dance. We breath a collective breath, and release it as the horses cross the line. Some win, and wait impatiently for the stats to be verified. Most lose. With horse racing, there is not enough time to sulk in the monetary expenditure which horse four failed to back. There are more charts to read, more figures, more phone calls to be made, more side discussions to start, more alcohol to drink, more counters to visit, more losing tickets to discard, more cigarettes to smoke. Eventually, you walk out broke, not knowing how you got there.

 

Broken Bubbles and Toren Wrappers

Carelessly, I throw the wrapper into the pile that my mother refers to as a garbage can. It is overloaded, just as the memories and associations that this particular wrapper elicits. Bubblicious bubblegum, in its once tidy pack, is now dissheveled, toren from its hinges, for the purposes of my indulgence. It is as shrapnel to the bomb itself. It lacerates my vision, and sends me spiraling into the absurd happiness of my youth.

“Brian, did you want to go to the store?”

“Sure, let’s get some bottles together.” The truth is, we were always getting some bottles together. Fortunately, the stock pile never seemed to run low.

“Do you want to go to the corner store?

“Where else?” We acted as if we had options. As if we had a means of going any further before our parents simultaneously realized that we had exited the general bubble that was neighborhood existence.

Then, it was across the field at the end of the block, the same field that would later become a dental center. As if an ironic premonition, we were bent on destroying each and every tooth that claimed residence within our oral cavaties. Approaching the door, we would make our final beverage decisions, after having rehashed everything to redundancy, for the past fifteen minutes.

“Coca-cola just tastes better.”

“Sprite. That is where it’s at.”

“But, with Coca-cola, there is the chance that we will win another one.” Last thing we needed was another Coca-Cola.

With that, the decision was made.

We entered the door, walked to the right extremity of the building and pulled out our respective choices, which happened to be Coca-Cola after the previous argument. Eagerly we pulled the white caps from the bottles, and flipped them over to display our booty. At that time there were no annoying online codes to enter, no sweepstakes drawings. Just the utter simplicity of immediately redeeming your prize at the store counter. Not this time.

Walking back from the embedded depths of the cooler area, we would both eagerly realize the main mission, the main endeavor. The reason that we had been positioned as children within such close proximity to a party store that sold everything from abstract candy treats to foreign beverage varieties. There, immediately in front of us, was the new industrial rack that they had assembled. This rack was responsible for housing at least thirty different varieties of Bubblicious bubble gum; the finest chewing gum in the Midwest. Despite being the monotony of serving sizes, they featured various labels, in a plethora of extravagant colors. They were all suggestive. The flavors were as a giant wheel of oral anticipation.

Strawberry Splash, Watermelon, Sour Apple, Blue Blowout, Lightning Lemonade, Twisted Tornado, and Gonzo Grape (Hunter S. Thompson reference?)

My youth undoubtedly exists as a compilation of various different encounters and experiences. The day I stopped eating excessive amounts of Bubblicious bubble gum, is the same day that the bubble of my youth popped.

Thrown away on June 14, 2007