I have pretty much, basically, always inhabited a cluttered bedroom. A period of exception that I can remember is when my family was selling our house in Colorado and so when we were at school during the day our rooms had to be relatively tidy in case there was a showing to a potential buyer.
I also remember at some point during that school year asking my mom if the realtor and house shoppers were looking at the insides of our closets, and she was like, "Yeah," and I was like, "Oh."
I most definitely "cleaned" my room each morning before running to the bus by shoving things into my closet and crushing the doors closed around them, abiding by the logic that no one would never look in there because why would they want to see my troll doll collection and many latch hook kits as a basis for their home purchase decision?
(Now that I am older I understand full well how appealing a walk in closet is, and in fact it is one of my most desirable items in a future home, so I get it that looking inside a closet is mandatory. My dream closet would allow me to have nearly all of my clothes hanging up on hangers -- yes, even casual t-shirts -- so that I could see everything at once, have a cubby or drawer or something for all my workout clothes, nails on the wall to hold purses and belts and necklaces and hats and scarves. This is the dream and hopefully someday I will see it realized in all its glory. Also a full bathtub, slanted ceilings/walls, a little protruding window nook, built in bookshelves, and a patio/deck/private outdoor space please and thank you.)
Anyway, I told my older brother this, that they were looking in our closets, and he was like, "Whoops," because he, too, had been operating with the shove-and-stuff method of closet "cleaning."
So beyond this period in eighth grade when my bedroom was clean but not really because all my secret messes were in the closet, I have always lived in clutter.
It is actually a very difficult thing for me to grapple with, as it affects my anxiety and discontent and lowers my self esteem and no I'm not being funny. If I could change a few things about my personality and life, near the top of the list would be having a better adherence to tidiness, because I know it would help me so much. I will say that since Covid began, I have managed to realize that while no matter what I will always very quickly make a mess of a space, I now have the confidence and awareness that in about 30 minutes I can put things in various corners and nooks and take out the trash and voila it looks much better and I can breathe easier. I used to get over over overwhelmed every time I tried to clean, furthering my dismay and dislike for myself nearly every time, but I do think I've had a recent breakthrough in that regard so that's a(n actually enormous) win.
OK ANYWAY.
The point of this conversation so far is to introduce the picture I have posted above that is of a bedroom that is not actually one that I ever lived in long term, but it is one that I stayed in for about a week in 2005.
I have been flipping through old print photos from all the disposable cameras I used to carry around in my youth, and I don't know the degree to which this will become a trend for me and my writing, but I am considering using various pictures as a jumping off point to write love letters to my past and people and things in it.
So let me introduce you to the bedroom at a convent in Johannesburg, South Africa and my many various belongings that I can identify and recall with much clarity even though I'm pretty sure I don't own any of these things anymore except maybe the photos and a bible that were inside those bags.
***
So, first: the bed. The one in the corner there, with the pillow propped against the brick, that was the one I slept in. My dear friend Samantha rested in the other one, pictured more in the foreground. This bed is, to date, one of the ones that I remember as being the most comfortable of my life. I'm not even sure it was a real mattress, but rather like a big pile of feathers or straw except not pokey? I sunk into that bed and it was awesome. It was like solid but not hard and it was no nonsense and it just cradled my very jet-lagged body and it was a welcome proprieter for my arrival into a big semester of learning and growing. This was the very first spot we stayed in Africa, so by the time I finally hit the pillow I had been awake for, I don't know, maybe 30 hours at least? I slept hard that first night. I also remember one of my final thoughts before drifting off was the wonder at where I was on the globe. I had never been outside the US, and it was so crazy to fully grasp just how far away I was. (My parents told me later that during that semester they were at a museum or Union Station or something and there was a giant photo of sand dunes -- maybe in the Namib desert -- and they said they just held each other looking at that image, knowing I was out there somewhere. God bless them so hard for letting me go on that adventure, when I'm sure they were freaked out about it. And God bless my big bro who honestly really helped convince them to do so.)
OK, second: the company. As I mentioned, my girl Sammy was in this room with me. We already knew each other from our undergrad campus in the States and were already very good friends. We decided to room together at this convent where we were told Desmond Tutu would sometimes holiday, and so we obviously of course told ourselves that we were sleeping in Mr. Bishop's quarters, even though it was likely he was usually put up in the flat above ours that I think actually had its own bathroom as opposed to the hot pot and tea that ours was outfitted with.
Which brings me to, third: the hot pot and tea. Yes, there was an electric hot pot as well as rooibos (red bush) tea bags and I think, too, a tin of biscuits or rusks for us to enjoy at our leisure. Rooibos is a decaffeinated tea and I prefer it with milk. Generally speaking I drink tea without cream or sugar, but rooibos is an exception. There is a British grocer/novelty shop in Santa Monica that sells rooibos and raisin rusks and these tiny mint candies that I like and once in a while I will buy all three and transport back to being 20 in the southern hemisphere.
OK, I realize this is long so I will now move on to the STUFF in the room and try to describe each item quickly. Ready? Here we go:
On the bed:
The khaki green (fake?) cuorduroy jacket: purchased, I believe, at Macy's during winter break sophomore year on a shopping trip with Mom. It was trim and casual and more trendy than most of my wardrobe and made me feel stylish. I do believe this was the warmest article of clothing I brought with me, as I predicted I would not ever desire a sweatshirt or sweatpants or other various layers during the spring and summer months of my stay. I was wrong.
The Herbal Essences toiletry bag: I think the bag itself was a Christmas gift my freshman year of high school (-ish), maybe from Grams, and it had various small bottles of shampoo, hair spray (which I can still precisely smell in my mind's nose), etc. inside it. I proceeded to use it to hold my toiletries on just about every vacation for several years until I finally tossed it maybe three or four years ago.
On the floor:
The Kansas City Chiefs duffle: No doubt a "hand me down" (read: I probably just decided I was allowed to inherit it) from one of my big brothers. This, too, went with me on many vacations, especially those requiring car travel and/or not enough days away from home to require a roll-y bag of luggage. I also used it as my gym bag for a long time (I recently, suddenly remembered that I used to always bring a duffle to the gym, and at some point I just stopped I guess), and got rid of it maybe three years ago? because it was starting to fall apart and had some weird sticky stuff on it that didn't come off in the wash.
The blue and silver running shoes: I want to say Nike, but they may have been New Balance. They were a narrow cut, which made my wide feet look extra hip, despite the fact that they were usually paired with conservative knee-length skirts and wide-strapped sleeveless blouses to be respectful of our many hosts in southern Africa but also to protect my footsies from all the walking we did. Later I discovered that one of my best friends, Corie, had purchased the exact same pair for herself, which we thought was hilarious and awesome because there tend to be a lot of similarities in our very different lives.
The red backpack: This backpack was purchased when I was 17 at a K-Mart, and I threw it away when I was around 31, replacing it with a purple REI pack that has its facets but is not the same, we all know that without me having to tell you. The red backpack became so faded and torn that I finally had to say buh bye. But before I did it went on many plane rides, train rides, around one high school and across two college campuses. It visited at least two, maybe three countries, and went to many states, hotel rooms, one or two hostels, Hawaii I think yes but Alaska no. It served me well. There was a Canada keychain on one of the zipper pulls that my brother gave me, and I salvaged that at the site of our parting, a dumpster in Encino.
The modern art design photo album inside the red backpack: A Dollar General purchase, I believe. I took with me for this semester two albums of photos featuring at least one shot of basically anyone I knew. Family, grandparents, cats, friends. I think it was suggested to us that we bring photos so that we could show the families who hosted us in their homes, as a conversation starter and to make our time with them more meaningful and intimate and kind, I guess. And/or I wanted to have pictures with me so that I could look at the people I love who were far away (remember, this was 2005. I didn't have a laptop, smart phone, or anything of that nature. I'm pretty sure over the course of four months I talked to my parents on the phone just twice. It was certainly tough at times). Anyway, at my first homestay, in the historic Soweto district of Joburg, the girls I was staying with were so taken with a picture from my senior prom that I let them keep it. Makes me smile to think it might still be buried in a drawer somewhere, in a private home that doubled as a bed and breakfast, or maybe in a big girl flat. Makes me smile even more to think that someone might pull it out and be like, "Who the -- are these random white people in my drawer?". I really hope it brings silly confusion if not a kind memory to whomever has it now.
The floral print fuschia top that is smushed in the duffle: I think my mom bought this for me at Kohl's before I left on my trip, to help create a base of outfits that would keep me cool and be professional. I would wear that top now, except that it became pilled and I no longer have it. I remember one of the women who cooked for us during that semester said that she liked it and I said thanks but that I didn't think it was me; I was still very much a tomboy in those days. She said something about how the flowers on it were bright, or happy or friendly or something, and that that was me. Her comment forever shifted my perspective and now I love love love floral prints. (Side note: this kind woman and her colleague made us some sort of cold lentil tuna salad that I loved and several loaves of piping hot bread. I would carve off inch-thick slices and slather them in butter and slowly my pants did stop fitting.)
And finally, on Sam's bed:
I think that is a tote with our alma mater's insignia on it. Sammy and I are still friends and in recent months have had two phone conversations that were each four hours in length. This was not difficult for us to do nor were we a part of some kind of world record challenge. We just enjoy each other that much. Our first real conversation was in a field in front of the arts building 17 years ago this very month, and we have never lost our ability to gab. She is one of the funniest people I will ever know, astute and well read, and her self-assuredness shows me that I can live my life in nontraditional ways and it's actually totally, totally OK.
So, you see, it's obvious why I roomed with her when we arrived in a faraway land just moments after leaving our teenage years. I had my first full beer that year, nursed it for at least an hour and it was warm when I finally drained the glass. A Hansa on draft at The Cardboard Box. If I were to go there now, I would do almost everything differently, with less fear and more conversations with my heart, actually listening to her and following some of her instructions. But ain't that the truth for most things? I was different then, younger, newer to my time on the planet. What it was is fine, and it is best for me to just love that baby Bails, understand her choices, and do things now to offset some of the things I wish I had been brave enough to do then. My past is not a mistake, just something to take notes from, I suppose. Highlight various passages and study for the next exam.
As someone at a dusty desert hostel would say, back from spying warthogs and easing their muscle strain with some freshly poured suds:
Cheers. To our past, present, and hope.
Xox
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