Well my friends, I have been to the abyss and I have emerged alive (barely). The abyss, formerly known as the garage, has been a compounding problem for the entirety of our time in West Fargo. On occasion, the space has actually been fairly defined as a garage – perhaps not the best manicured and maintained garage on the block – but a garage nonetheless. Over the past year though the garage evolved into a depository for all things displaced, dismembered and discarded. It became a scary place that seemed to just continue to suck in more and more items into its darkness. Increasingly, people were afraid to venture more than a few steps out the door for fear of not finding their way back to civilization.
Mike has been gently encouraging me to clean out the abyss so that my car could become reacquainted with the garage come winter time. I have been politely putting it off – again and again and again. Alas, in a weak moment I promised I would clean the abyss this weekend – and despite my fervent prayers mid-week that an asteroid would hit it prior to the arrival of the weekend – the weekend rolled around and there I was staring into the abyss wondering if I’d ever see my friends and family again once I ventured inward.
Yet, as frightening as it is to walk into the unknown unsure of whether you will emerge on the other side and if so, how the experience will have changed you, it was more problematic for me to break my promise to Mike. Not that I wouldn’t have made it up to him had I broken it – I would have put a trapeze and a pole in the bedroom to evidence the sincerity of my apology – but it would have been the guilt of the broken promise that would have taken me out (as I have shared before – half-Catholic/half Jewish = twice the guilt). A promise is a promise and I had to deliver no matter my reluctance or the allure of the apology bedroom retrofitting. So there I went into the abyss for the better part of Saturday and for a bit today and with the help of Mike and Cheyenne the abyss now resembles a garage again.
Unfortunately, even after a truck load of items were taken to Dakota Boy’s Ranch there still remains quite a pile of trash that has made its way to the curb. Apparently, the reclaiming of one person’s garage can result in another’s abyss. My curb is now its own black hole whose responsibility now falls on the unsuspecting sanitation workers who will likely start cussing when they first spy it from down the street. They won’t remember how much they loved me all summer when I was traveling and had no trash…they’ll just see the abyss and call me names.
I hope the garage will never again lose its identity. I hope that I have learned something in the process and that I will never again have to experience the abyss; but I can’t help but think that I should perhaps pre-order that trapeze and pole just in case.
Day eight hundred and eighteen of the new forty – obla di obla da