I admire mountaineers. People who hike the Appalachian Trail. Hobos. There is a certain abject necessity to everything that they have and carry, each piece distilled down to only it’s utmost functionality. I used to question the sanity to having a 100gram sleeping bag and matchbook sized camping stove.
However, as I stood in my spare bedroom last night holding a bag of over 100 drumsticks of varying sizes, I thought that perhaps a tent that folded into a twinkie wrapper wasn’t such a bad idea at all.
Everything that you own contains significantly more or less meaning as you consider schlepping it across 5000km to an apartment you’ve never seen, into a town you’re not sure actually has door to door mail delivery. This meaning never actually appears to relate directly to the object and it’s functionality at all… I have a million woolen caps that will no doubt be useful in a place that can get feet of snow in a day, but have given the majority away instead of move them. The three stone Buddha heads that I lugged around the mountains in India after buying them on my first stop and surely developing a hump, that most definately won’t keep me warm in the middle of the night (the heads, not the hump)? Yeah, they’re all coming with me. Wrapped in bubble paper no doubt.
As I was holding bags of drumsticks in my spare room last night, memories of J flooded forth… Him tapping on my leg on the bus, playing in front of 100 people, 10 people, lightly playing “Seven Steps to Heaven” on my back as I fell asleep at night. I pulled out a couple of pairs of shoes I rarely wear and slipped the bags in. There are some things you just can’t leave behind, no matter their weight. Or maybe, because of it.