Oh man I had stuff stolen in January. Society, don’t fail me so.
First I got this nice hat for Christmas and wore it for about two weeks before it was swiped at school. I really liked that hat; a couple people even said it was pretty cool.
A couple weeks later and a suitcase full of school audio equipment went missing from my locker. Now I owe the Audio/Visual Department over $700.
Tyler, good friend, returned from a trip around Europe with two specialty cycling publications from Coventry, sort of the centre of bicycle manufacturing in turn-of-the-century England. Anyways, just two hours after he presented them to me as gifts someone steals those, too. Loosing those hurt like hell; I felt like I’d betrayed Tyler’s generosity.
OK, in the first two cases I forgot to lock my locker; in the last I left the books on a table for a couple hours. But thieves are thieves! I feel like the sole receiver of the shit end of their business at Emily Carr this year.
I’ve lost at least four print-service cards charged with about $2 each since September. I left one in the second-floor photocopier this week!
I should go into photography next year if only for the fact that my camera hasn’t been stolen yet. How’ve I managed to hang on to that so long? I wonder which faculty entails the least potential for major financial loss via robbers. I’ll bet Industrial Designers are statistically prime targets for theft.
And now I was thinking about my landlady and her system of passive-aggressive post-it note communiqués, her innuendo, and I realized: I haven’t seen that particular Queen CD (Innuendo) in years. Oh man, they stole that, too?!
One of the techs in Foundation figures it’s a sign, the thefts. He wasn’t entirely clear what kind of sign (Jeff, get a new lock?), but I’ve been developing this little idea to help me on my path to freedom from pride, consumption, greed: For every additional possession I acquire I must actively reduce my current stronghold by two. For example if I buy a new shirt, two old ones must go. I could really use an iron, but then that vase and that CD binder are going to the Sally Ann. In theory I’ll eventually meet an asymptote of Nirvana, free from worldly goods.
For some reason when a stranger helps me with this task it isn’t the same. I don’t feel closer to Nirvana; I feel despair and anger. I’m at the crossroads: shall I learn to let go, or batten down the hatches?