On Packing and Purging in New Jersey

Amy says:

I am afraid of packing.

Let me clarify, I am afraid of packing to move in the way we are moving - without a final destination for an unknown quantity of time - and that means a lot of purging. It means getting rid of a lot of stuff. A lot of things that I have been carrying for decades.

In my mind I am a minimalist. My walls are a soft white. My rooms are spare and uncluttered. My dining room table is empty of the stacks of paper and a broken necklace and pieces of art and that Brownie camera we got from Jen and Todd that I keep meaning to send to Sasha. Come to think of it, in my mind, my mind is uncluttered, too. But the reality is that my kids tease us about being hoarders. The reality is that I hold onto things for sentimental reasons, and as an artist with a practice in a variety of disciplines I always think I am saving things to turn them into art someday.

When I was a kid I loved Shel Silverstein’s poem “Hector the Collector.”

Hector the Collector
Loved these things with all his soul--
Loved them more then shining diamonds,
Loved them more than glistenin' gold.
Hector called to all the people,
'Come and share my treasure trunk!'
And all the silly sightless people
Came and looked ... and called it junk.

Maybe the truth looks more like a tornado touched down in the middle of our living room. Maybe the truth is I am the kind of person who begins one task and then distractedly leaves the room to begin another important thing I’ve realized needs doing and then suddenly veers over to a third area that must be tackled until nothing is completed and everything is in chaos. Maybe the truth is I don’t know how to let go of my “treasures.” Maybe the truth is that Marie Kondo would be a welcome sight at our door. Maybe the truth is I will be a minimalist in our next home.

. . . . .

Maya says:

I am a classic Taurus Rat, a person who tends to make piles of things, who likes sorting and organizing into like categories, a person who feels a bit allergic to junk drawers and catch-all baskets that collide with disparate and neglected things. I like the breeziness of throwing away what needs discarding, of purging the cabinets of mismatched drinkware, of trudging down into the bowels of the basement to tackle the boxes that everyone avoids.

I’ve been amazed in some ways by how ruthless I’ve become for the move out of our home of the past 5 years. Having already been through a rather large slashing and burning in my last move (out of San Francisco), I have a significantly smaller pile than Amy of personal items to go through and make discerning decisions about. Of course, we’ve accumulated plenty of things together, and while many of these have been fairly easy to tackle, what astonishes me is the volume and variety of objects. They are not easy to sort, categorize, or make piles of. And so at the moment, Evan’s bedroom floor is dotted with a multitude of small collections, and as I’m disassembling the rest of the bins and boxes we’ve kept out of view, I’m being challenged anew by how to make sense of these things, where and if they belong to our still undetermined future.

But one important principle has emerged, which is essentially a question: “Who will find meaning in this after I’m gone?” Or, put another way, “Will this [insert item here] have any meaning to anyone other than me?” It might sound morbid - why am I thinking of death when I’m packing? - but in many ways, it feels like a practical guide for decision-making. So many things I’ve kept over the years are items which I only look at when I’m moving. Otherwise, they lie there, unengaged-with, for years. When I pick them up and hold them in my hands, a slew of memories, sensations, and experiences floods me. These objects have meaning for me because they are mine. But are they empirically meaningful? Are they universally charged? The answer, most often than not, is a resounding No.

The truth is, at the heart of it, I am carrying memories, sensations, and experiences all the time. The objects simply carry the element of physicality, and over the years, I’ve attached meaning to that physicality. I have associated the tangible nature of objects with meaning. But the meaning is already embedded in me. I’ve been marked, permanently, by what I have done and seen and felt. Maybe I can’t remember all of it - and physical objects help me do that - but I hold it nevertheless. And I always will.

Amy says, Maya says...

Amy says:
Those of you who have been following us for a long time might remember that during our traveling projects (Type Rider II: The Tandem Poetry Tour and The Tiny Book Show) we kept a blog, each writing our separate impressions of the day or event. Our Tandem Poetry practice is also written together, yet separately. When you give us a word or answer one of our questions to prompt us, we give you back two poems, one written by each of us.

Our decision to work this way was made for a couple of important reasons: One, so that we can land on a word in two separate ways from two distinct viewpoints. And two, so that the receivers of the poems experience two different writing styles. When the situation allows for it, we love to read our poems out loud to the recipient. We enjoy the chance to see where our writing diverges and where it intersects, where we might evoke the same imagery or use the same words, and where we careen off on completely different tangents.

The point of all of this reminiscing about way of sharing our experiences, is to let you all in on some big news. We are officially leaving New Jersey at the end of the summer and we will be blogging here about our adventures. Tandem style, of course.

Nutley has been my home for the last 22 years and Maya’s home for the last seven. We have lived in a sweet house for five of those years and love what we have created here. But the road is calling and we are ready to carve out a new life together, one that doesn’t have the ghosts of an old life attached to it at the joints. One that is “free from the tyrannies of economics and the tyrannies of expectation,” as our friend Peter Mulvey has said about his experiences as a traveling musician. A life that is an epic experiment in freedom, one that will include the exhilaration of not knowing exactly what comes next each day.

I can’t wait.

Maya says:
From a very young age, my parents instilled in me the importance of digging up your roots once in awhile. In our family, that looked like major moves across the US and internationally, which involved changes in schools and friends and all that was familiar. I was not always delighted by these sojourns, but as I got older, I understood the wisdom in shifting landscapes, changing course, reformatting the view, and starting over, and began looking at the big decisions of my life - jobs, romantic relationships, creative pursuits - with these guiding principles as vital ingredients.

That said, I am a creature of habit, more of a homebody than some might expect, often working very hard to create a sense of familiarity and routine that stabilizes, comforts, and provides a solid foundation underneath me. But after a good long spell in any one place, I am often asking myself “What next"?” As much as I enjoy consistency and stability, I am also a big dreamer, a muser of possibility, a creative artist and writer deeply driven by the space between ideation and manifestation, who loves that miasmic landscape where anything might happen, if you are open and willing and curious enough to see it through.

For the first time in my adult life, I am in a relationship with someone who’s ready to do that with me, and I couldn’t be more thrilled and excited to be sharing this moment of liftoff with Amy. It’s amazing enough to find one’s needle-in-a-haystack, but even more incredible to have a shared desire for change, adventure, and “what next”-ness.

And so, come late August, we’ll begin our “what next” in earnest, and it feels as if I am continuing the family legacy of leap-taking. The word “disruption” comes to mind now - the sense of breaking away from a long-held routine in favor of re-evaluating what’s important NOW, what’s itching to be experienced and explored. This inevitably means pulling out of certain structures that have been part of our lives for awhile - an address chief among them - in favor of what this kind of change might illuminate for both of us. Maybe we are meant to live on the road, or maybe we’ll find out a few months is more than enough. The most important thing is we’re committed to finding out, and that’s good enough for me. Onward!

Onward!

Amy says:
Maya and I have been asked often in the past month, “What’s next? Where are you going?” And the truth is we don’t know. We have a handful of concrete plans on the calendar. But we don’t know exactly what the business or our larger life will look like in 6 months or a year. On one hand, that’s terrifying and on the other this is not the first time we have stood in this space. What we can say is that it is also exhilarating. Letting go of what is known or quantifiable, getting quiet, trusting our instincts, trusting our community, trusting our partnership and our individual internal compasses is a bold kind of freedom we have learned to embrace.

I was talking to one of my sons last week about a decision he has been wrestling with and he asked me a question: “What if I’m wrong? What if it turns out to be a disaster?” And my answer was, Maybe it will be. Maybe it will be painful and uncomfortable for a while. But the beauty of this human experience is that our lives are a never-ending series of decisions and each one is based on the information you gathered from all the decisions that came before it. All of the failing and flailing and falling on your face and all of the joyful soaring. Nothing is lost. Nothing is wasted.

We are incredibly proud of what we have created during our time at 28 South Fullerton Avenue. We have gathered a diverse community at this paint-splattered table. We have sparked conversation and curiosity, invited questioning and collaboration. We have filled this room with art and artists, with poets and musicians, professionals and dabblers. We have used our voices to generate change. And we have been forever changed by our time here.

I will dare to paraphrase Winnie the Pooh here and say how lucky we are to have built something so wonderful, to have been connected to a community so brilliant, that it makes saying farewell so bittersweet. As our friend Elly texted us earlier today: Onward!

Maya says:
Walking in and seeing the wallpaper and feeling at home. The opening party. Blank walls and Belgian waffles. Painting the arch a dark shade of pumpkin. Tiny dioramas in the bathroom. The printers tray populated by the remnants of the places we’ve been, including the night that brought us together. When Payal and Zain first came in, and then Anne and Gigi and Viv. Vic, tell us she was happy to become our #1 stalker. When people came in and said, “We saw you on Walnut Street” or “We saw you on Glenridge Avenue” when they spotted the typewriters, and the way their eyes got so big. The sound of the keys on a Wednesday afternoon.  A bowl made out of magazine, filled with first lines. The way a community rises like dough. 

Cecilia helping with the first art openings. Colleen and her thousand-watt grin, all the way to her eyes. A French crepe station at the holiday pop-up. All the “what if we” that became a “yes.” Thousands of hours of leaning and learning over a paint-splattered table.
A tiny book machine that emptied and filled and emptied and filled. The bicycle cart Rachel gifted us, and the additional real estate it made on the sidewalk and when I rode the parade route and rang the bell and everybody waved. Writing prompts for strangers. Things to take and share. Small, unexpected acts of healing.

The first wine stains on the carpet. After a birthday party, ground-in potato chips, cake frosting, forgotten favors. Renee coming in for her mental health breaks. Scott arriving certain afternoons and how it felt like Mr. Rogers neighborhood. Summer camp yoga with Ruth, and then the room careening with girls. Jojo and the quiet way she slipped to the back to continue her story. Lulu and her gymnastics after the cleanup. Abby and her love of vacuuming at the end of the day. The way the closing art show always brought tears in my eyes. How 600 square feet can look bigger than it is, and then how it can seem like a living room.

The too-hot atrium and Frank Sinatra piped in and how slow our internet was and maybe that was the point. The way people squinted through the tinted glass, and what brought them inside to say hello. The long days of that first year, followed by the permission slip of “Open by chance or by appointment.” Thousands and thousands of origami folds. When a parking spot felt like a lucky break. Yarn bombs on a tree, at a parking meter, on a utility pole. The deepening belief that art can happen anywhere, and does.

Book launches and tiny instrument concerts. An open mic with a captive audience. How the view kept changing with each exhibit, but the feeling remained the same. The clutter of the back room, the collision in the basement, shelves like an archaeological dig. Sophia angling for the chocolate she knew was hiding on top of the microwave. Pipe cleaners always at the ready. A tabletop popcorn maker that filled the room with nostalgia. The surprise of whoever showed up. They way certain people began reinventing their own stories. When Laura said, I can taste you in this soup. The way Madeleine and Ben lingered after events, the loveseat we clustered around to download our observations. Yana and her yarn in the window, a cascade of bright color. Elise and her pride of her girls. Fruit salad in an ice cream cone.
The countless slices of the paper cutter and the smell of hot glue in the air. A poetry reading that shifted the temperature in the room.
The glee of watching people clink glasses under art. Every day like a fortune cookie, waiting to be cracked open. 

How the room looked from the outside at night, a little like a snow globe.
How sometimes, walking out the door, we sighed in the deepest contentment. 

Being welcomed and being known and being loved.  There is no better thing than this,