That dress wanted freedom so badly. I would’ve at least bought it to burn it.
I do write a diary. Not often but I do. In that it’s just life happenings and stuff. But what’s more interesting is the dream diary I keep. I told myself after five years I’m going to combine the two and extrapolate some stories. Now I’ll start adding more sad objects.
Little old ladies doing their shopping alone. They look so frail and their shopping looks so painful on the conveyor belt, like reduced bread, two apples, a pot of cottage cheese and then a big pack of exciting and expensive biscuits. It makes me think about a widowed grandma pottering about, not really sleeping, bored, counting every penny, but always looking forward to grandchildren visiting. It just runs right through me, how vulnerable they look. Worrying if the grandkids will turn up. Truly the thing that gets me every time.
There are abandoned houses in the countryside where I live. I explore them. Apart from the dust, they're a still life of their last moments. The drawers are filled with clothes. There's toys in the entrance where kids dropped them as the family left. Jumbled shoes. They thought they were just moving to the city until times got better.
When I need a dose of sadness I watch Youtube videos in this genre. Amazing what abandonment does to transform objects into wistfulness lightning rods -- even the nudie magazines and Spaghetti-o's.
I used to get the train to university and pretty much every day on the way to the station I’d walk past a closed sex shop (which had a huge sign reading “Adult Store” on the side of it that was one of the first things people saw coming off of a train into the city) and written on the wall of the shop was the graffitied message “Talk to me Peanut”. Always found the sullen plea and rather unique location to leave such a message quite depressing. Was also surprised when, some time later, I saw the message “I miss you Peanut” written on a wall by a store about a mile away. Same handwriting, same nickname. The graffitied messages have been there for a few years now.
My parents retired almost a decade ago and sold their RV repair business to their lead tech. He continued to lease the building from them until this past February, when he decided he could no longer keep the business afloat. As the eldest son, it was my responsibility to get the property cleaned up and ready to sell. After five months of dumpsters, pressure-washing, and inspection punch-lists, I stood alone in the building that had been part of my life since I was fourteen and turned off the lights and locked the door for the last time.
Guitars make me sad. My dad was a musician and when he died, I inherited all of his guitars. I also inherited the family disease: addiction. His vice was blackjack, mine was heroin. I pawned all the guitars so I could fix. Eventually I got better, but the guitars were long gone. My mom tried to comfort me. "Those weren't those guitars first trip to the pawn shop," she'd say. "Those guitars deserve to be played, now they're out in the world making music." But they were all I had left of him, and I shot them up.
People still buy me guitar presents: shirts with acoustics, posters with telecasters, Christmas ornaments of little Santas playing Stratocasters. I can't escape them.
Too many of my guitars have been sold and gone away. I miss all of them like old friends. Jacksons and Fenders and Charvels. I hope some kid is jamming on them better and more often than me.
Since I was really little, a copy of that book was in all my relatives houses. It was a cousin's favorite. He's a big tough guy now, shaped like a gorilla, covered in tattoos and muscles so big you can't see his neck. He's been in and out jail, was a veteran, and he's hurt people.
But used to be, he was a little boy, and that little boy would sit in my aunties' or granny's or whoever's lap, and that was the book they read.
Idk. Makes me think how monsters come from tender places.
Ooh, now the “saddest of all canned meats” is a debate I can get behind. I’d like to throw whole canned chicken into the ring, because I can’t fathom how depressed someone must be to see that on the shelf and think “yup, that sounds like dinner tonight.”
This reminds me of the meager possessions the elderly take to nursing home. Being a veteran caregiver I can say I’ve seen a thousand sad baubles, rings, necklaces, dresses, get well cards, keys, dentures, glasses, shoes, prosthetics, baby dolls, VHS tapes, books (dozens of books) and clothes that get either thrown away or donated when your nana passes away. She loved those things even if she didn’t remember where they came from.
While writing 'Choke' I worked in such a home. We called it "Life in a Box," and my job was to review the articles with residents. The comfort was that most couldn't recognize the photos or items after long in residence.
I did not know that. When I read it I felt like you’d been visiting a few nursing homes. It was like I’d worked with you and you knew the quirks of elder care. Ironic again it’s the only book of yours I’ve ever stolen. I have a nursing home book written and rejected. Once I finish my current project I might go back for a re-edit.
PS Still owe you a buck for the book. Maybe on the next tour for Shock Induction I’ll give it to you.
That’s my secret: I’m always sad. I live too close to my hometown, where ghosts populate every corner and those who I have loved are long dead or departed. But what makes me saddest are those damned Sarah McLachlan ASPCA commercials. Or, Robin Williams movies. I can’t see his face anymore. I loved him so much.
Anthony Bourdains death really fucked me up for a while. For some reason, Ive been on a marathon of watching his interviews this week. Doesnt make me sad though. He led a spectacular life.
I’m a vinyl record collector, and I can often be found digging through bins of used LPs. I will often come across a bunch of discs that were obviously part of a single collection… whether all by the same artist, or some odd subset like obscure Broadway flops.
It always gives me pause; someone had carefully curated these, and now they’re in this dusty box. Did they die? Get tired of them, or just downsizing?
Sometimes they are personalized with a name or date and I can’t help trying to find out who they were and what their fate may have been.
One of my relatives died a terrible, senseless death related to alcoholism. He had a lovingly curated collection of every Rolling Stone magazine ever published, along with an extensive vinyl collection I remember perusing with him.
His children rented a Dumpster when he died. They threw everything in there, never really looking at any of it. Smashing a lot of the records out of anger because their father cared far more for the collection than he ever did them. I understood why they did it, but I also remember a new level of devastatation while watching it happen. Multiple lifetimes of missed connections among that family.
Hoarders in general. I helped a friend clear out his parents' house once, and their place was so packed with stuff that some rooms hadn't been accessible for years. His mother was acting obsessive and neurotic the whole time, insisting she "needed" various items. She saw me grab a box of old books from the backyard that was under a tarp. They were books from my elementary school, and I might have even read one of them back then.
She was my kindergarten teacher and had kept the books when the school closed down, saying she was holding onto them in case they ever had to move to the "property" near Kingman. This property was really just a rustic piece of desert land with nothing but a road accessible only by four-wheel drive. Everyone in our tight-knit community had been talking about the property for years, and a few had even gone up there and made some improvements. But it was no place to live out the apocalypse.
She said she wanted to keep the books so that if the world went to hell, she could teach the kids out there on the property. Teach them with these old, musty, wrinkled children's books that were almost completely worthless - books that hadn't been touched in 20 years. They sat in a box inside the house initially, then were shuffled around to make room for more stuff, eventually ending up outside under a tarp next to some old lamps and broken furniture. Their only real purpose was as a hedge against the end of the world. Hoarders bum me out.
Ive never felt freer than when I sold/gave away 95% of my belongings and moved across the country.
Hoarding is strange. Avoiding short term discomfort in favor of long term discomfort with a nearly 0 chance that some good could come of hanging on to some worthless thing. I say this, but I could stand to offload some more junk.
These days, I'm a minimalist. For a long time, I traveled with just two checked bags, a backpack, and a duffle bag of sentimental memorabilia left at my parents' house. I could still pick up and leave today with the same amount of stuff because everything else is replaceable. Pots, pans, tools, etc., can all be bought new at the destination. It's much better than trying to bring everything with you.
Right? When we bought the house, here, it had been the collection site for a Y2K cult. They'd stored mountains of stuff they "needed" for the post-Y2K world.
Interesting thought exercise. I recall feeling very sad about toys and other inanimate objects being abandoned or left behind... I attribute that largely to The Brave Little Toaster and Toy Story 😅
That dress wanted freedom so badly. I would’ve at least bought it to burn it.
I do write a diary. Not often but I do. In that it’s just life happenings and stuff. But what’s more interesting is the dream diary I keep. I told myself after five years I’m going to combine the two and extrapolate some stories. Now I’ll start adding more sad objects.
Little old ladies doing their shopping alone. They look so frail and their shopping looks so painful on the conveyor belt, like reduced bread, two apples, a pot of cottage cheese and then a big pack of exciting and expensive biscuits. It makes me think about a widowed grandma pottering about, not really sleeping, bored, counting every penny, but always looking forward to grandchildren visiting. It just runs right through me, how vulnerable they look. Worrying if the grandkids will turn up. Truly the thing that gets me every time.
I’m with you. This is very closely related to what I posted a bit ago about abandoned, unpurchased (not a word? it is now) groceries.
Made me think of a book I finished recently: Sipsworth
Tha Millionaire always inexplicably bums me out. Lucky for me I am Millionaire-free now....
Reminds me of how my addict parents would steal and pawn my expensive jewelry for cash. It was always eventually swallowed up by the pawn shop.
There are abandoned houses in the countryside where I live. I explore them. Apart from the dust, they're a still life of their last moments. The drawers are filled with clothes. There's toys in the entrance where kids dropped them as the family left. Jumbled shoes. They thought they were just moving to the city until times got better.
And there are a lot of these houses.
When I need a dose of sadness I watch Youtube videos in this genre. Amazing what abandonment does to transform objects into wistfulness lightning rods -- even the nudie magazines and Spaghetti-o's.
I guess the same observation goes for the wedding dress and chihuahuas..
Thank you! Needed to read it.
I used to get the train to university and pretty much every day on the way to the station I’d walk past a closed sex shop (which had a huge sign reading “Adult Store” on the side of it that was one of the first things people saw coming off of a train into the city) and written on the wall of the shop was the graffitied message “Talk to me Peanut”. Always found the sullen plea and rather unique location to leave such a message quite depressing. Was also surprised when, some time later, I saw the message “I miss you Peanut” written on a wall by a store about a mile away. Same handwriting, same nickname. The graffitied messages have been there for a few years now.
Missus Peanut must have bailed on Mister Peanut
My parents retired almost a decade ago and sold their RV repair business to their lead tech. He continued to lease the building from them until this past February, when he decided he could no longer keep the business afloat. As the eldest son, it was my responsibility to get the property cleaned up and ready to sell. After five months of dumpsters, pressure-washing, and inspection punch-lists, I stood alone in the building that had been part of my life since I was fourteen and turned off the lights and locked the door for the last time.
Ah, real estate agents are filled with stories that break your heart this way. Widows in houses full of "heirlooms" no one wants. Hoarders.
That, and agents have some of the most frightening anecdotes -- being alone in houses, meeting with strangers -- I've heard.
Yep. I have a few of those stories.
Guitars make me sad. My dad was a musician and when he died, I inherited all of his guitars. I also inherited the family disease: addiction. His vice was blackjack, mine was heroin. I pawned all the guitars so I could fix. Eventually I got better, but the guitars were long gone. My mom tried to comfort me. "Those weren't those guitars first trip to the pawn shop," she'd say. "Those guitars deserve to be played, now they're out in the world making music." But they were all I had left of him, and I shot them up.
People still buy me guitar presents: shirts with acoustics, posters with telecasters, Christmas ornaments of little Santas playing Stratocasters. I can't escape them.
Too many of my guitars have been sold and gone away. I miss all of them like old friends. Jacksons and Fenders and Charvels. I hope some kid is jamming on them better and more often than me.
Many people feel that way about book collections.
Me, I'm torn. I want to keep my few Nami Mun and Mark Richard stories, but I also want people to read them, so I give them away.
Peter Rabbit in Mr Mcgregor's Garden.
Since I was really little, a copy of that book was in all my relatives houses. It was a cousin's favorite. He's a big tough guy now, shaped like a gorilla, covered in tattoos and muscles so big you can't see his neck. He's been in and out jail, was a veteran, and he's hurt people.
But used to be, he was a little boy, and that little boy would sit in my aunties' or granny's or whoever's lap, and that was the book they read.
Idk. Makes me think how monsters come from tender places.
“monsters come from tender places” is a spectacular phrase
canned meat - just seems to project the future of someone eating alone who can't be bothered to cook a hamburger
But I like spam, it's the long pork of canned meats.
Not against it. Just the prompt was that which makes you inexplicably sad.
Potted meat and vienna sausages are the saddest of all the meats.
No, wait, Deviled Ham is sad?
I love its salty goodness.
Ooh, now the “saddest of all canned meats” is a debate I can get behind. I’d like to throw whole canned chicken into the ring, because I can’t fathom how depressed someone must be to see that on the shelf and think “yup, that sounds like dinner tonight.”
I was actually thinking of canned chicken when I write the original comment
Dollar Store canned meat is saddest.
This reminds me of the meager possessions the elderly take to nursing home. Being a veteran caregiver I can say I’ve seen a thousand sad baubles, rings, necklaces, dresses, get well cards, keys, dentures, glasses, shoes, prosthetics, baby dolls, VHS tapes, books (dozens of books) and clothes that get either thrown away or donated when your nana passes away. She loved those things even if she didn’t remember where they came from.
While writing 'Choke' I worked in such a home. We called it "Life in a Box," and my job was to review the articles with residents. The comfort was that most couldn't recognize the photos or items after long in residence.
I did not know that. When I read it I felt like you’d been visiting a few nursing homes. It was like I’d worked with you and you knew the quirks of elder care. Ironic again it’s the only book of yours I’ve ever stolen. I have a nursing home book written and rejected. Once I finish my current project I might go back for a re-edit.
PS Still owe you a buck for the book. Maybe on the next tour for Shock Induction I’ll give it to you.
That’s my secret: I’m always sad. I live too close to my hometown, where ghosts populate every corner and those who I have loved are long dead or departed. But what makes me saddest are those damned Sarah McLachlan ASPCA commercials. Or, Robin Williams movies. I can’t see his face anymore. I loved him so much.
Anthony Bourdains death really fucked me up for a while. For some reason, Ive been on a marathon of watching his interviews this week. Doesnt make me sad though. He led a spectacular life.
I’m a vinyl record collector, and I can often be found digging through bins of used LPs. I will often come across a bunch of discs that were obviously part of a single collection… whether all by the same artist, or some odd subset like obscure Broadway flops.
It always gives me pause; someone had carefully curated these, and now they’re in this dusty box. Did they die? Get tired of them, or just downsizing?
Sometimes they are personalized with a name or date and I can’t help trying to find out who they were and what their fate may have been.
One of my relatives died a terrible, senseless death related to alcoholism. He had a lovingly curated collection of every Rolling Stone magazine ever published, along with an extensive vinyl collection I remember perusing with him.
His children rented a Dumpster when he died. They threw everything in there, never really looking at any of it. Smashing a lot of the records out of anger because their father cared far more for the collection than he ever did them. I understood why they did it, but I also remember a new level of devastatation while watching it happen. Multiple lifetimes of missed connections among that family.
That is a story. Or a good scene for a novel. Like the "Breaking Rooms" in Japan.
Hoarders in general. I helped a friend clear out his parents' house once, and their place was so packed with stuff that some rooms hadn't been accessible for years. His mother was acting obsessive and neurotic the whole time, insisting she "needed" various items. She saw me grab a box of old books from the backyard that was under a tarp. They were books from my elementary school, and I might have even read one of them back then.
She was my kindergarten teacher and had kept the books when the school closed down, saying she was holding onto them in case they ever had to move to the "property" near Kingman. This property was really just a rustic piece of desert land with nothing but a road accessible only by four-wheel drive. Everyone in our tight-knit community had been talking about the property for years, and a few had even gone up there and made some improvements. But it was no place to live out the apocalypse.
She said she wanted to keep the books so that if the world went to hell, she could teach the kids out there on the property. Teach them with these old, musty, wrinkled children's books that were almost completely worthless - books that hadn't been touched in 20 years. They sat in a box inside the house initially, then were shuffled around to make room for more stuff, eventually ending up outside under a tarp next to some old lamps and broken furniture. Their only real purpose was as a hedge against the end of the world. Hoarders bum me out.
Ive never felt freer than when I sold/gave away 95% of my belongings and moved across the country.
Hoarding is strange. Avoiding short term discomfort in favor of long term discomfort with a nearly 0 chance that some good could come of hanging on to some worthless thing. I say this, but I could stand to offload some more junk.
It's a mental illness that will never make sense to someone who doesn't have it.
I cant control X Y or Z, so I control this thing that I can control. I do this to a degree as well.
Humans are fascinating and terrifying, and lovely.
These days, I'm a minimalist. For a long time, I traveled with just two checked bags, a backpack, and a duffle bag of sentimental memorabilia left at my parents' house. I could still pick up and leave today with the same amount of stuff because everything else is replaceable. Pots, pans, tools, etc., can all be bought new at the destination. It's much better than trying to bring everything with you.
Right? When we bought the house, here, it had been the collection site for a Y2K cult. They'd stored mountains of stuff they "needed" for the post-Y2K world.
Interesting thought exercise. I recall feeling very sad about toys and other inanimate objects being abandoned or left behind... I attribute that largely to The Brave Little Toaster and Toy Story 😅
The Velveteen Rabbit.
And all the toys had to be burned... Wah? Fuck!
Right? That one hurt!