Somewhere in Culver City lies this storage unit. And in this storage unit lies all my stuff. My stuff fits into the smallest storage unit I could find (4′ x 4′ x 3.5′), which is pretty impressive considering that my home has only one closet. This is a result of me getting rid of lots of stuff when I moved to Southern California after a lifelong stint on the East Coast.
See, I did what I think a lot of other people do: move out here with the least possible baggage, literally and figuratively, to start a new life. Many of us come here with the idea that (1) it’s something we need to try once in our life; and (2) we’re going to try it for a year or so, to see if we can “make it,” whether professionally, socially, in the arts, as a complete reinvention of self, or whatever that term may mean to us.
Inside my storage unit, aside from things like luggage that I use, are boxes filled with books and other items that I can’t seem to let go of. One such item is a framed painting that my mom painted decades ago as a student. That painting got as far as the open trunk of my car at the Goodwill in Gaithersburg, Maryland, my hands grasping each side of the frame, before I decided that, one day, it may be the only thing I have of hers that she actually made.
My “year or so” California trial is about to reach its three year anniversary. And I’m still traveling light.