The Value of Things

I’ve been doing some spring cleaning. I am so sick of clutter and crap, I’m junking everything I possibly can. I’m ruthlessly cutting anything out of my life that isn’t a necessary tool or a thing associated with a distinct and powerful memory. Everything heavy, clunky, tiresome, unused, redundant, useless, ugly, worn out, stained, and/or scratched must go. All this crap that I have accumulated over the years has to leave via trash, recycle, donation, or by sale. The first three are pretty easy to navigate. The latter is the difficult game.

While going through all of my shit, I have been trying to figure out why I have it. Why do I have three cookie sheets? How did I get 200 DVDs? What do I do with stuff that seems useful, but doesn’t have any resale value? How do I know what to sell and what to trash?

Well, it appears that most of the shit I have wasted time and money accumulating has little to no discernible value. Nobody wants a used pasta spoon. Nobody will pay money for one or four of my laundry baskets. There aren’t many buyers out there for old plastic, toy starships from Star Trek. And certainly, nobody gives a flying shit about my old bed sheets for my old twin sized bed from high school. Especially in the age of bed bugs (never had ‘em, but strangers don’t know that. Plus, who would buy used bed sheets, anyway?)

In trying to sort and discard, I have learned quickly how toxic and meaningless the habits of the American consumer are. I have typically been pretty minimalist in my shopping approaches. I typically buy things that I need to make something. I probably ended up with three cookie sheets because I was making a big batch of cookies or got some insanely good deal and got three in a set. Still, the process of determining value has been an anthropological study of… myself.

I wish I could say that the things I own are valuable, but the truth is: Almost none of it is. As I have learned, the only things that hold value are recent technology, name-brand tools, and a very select number of collectibles. The rest of it is just the modern equivalent of debitage. It’s just crap that says, “Yep, I’m here, I’m a modern American, and I have mastered living day-to-day."

When I go through all my old crap, I realize that I was living well. But when I contrast my old ways with the new ways I’ve learned to live, the way I used to live seems preposterous. The things I spent money on are now just money lost. It’s redundancy on top of redundancy; meaningless gadget begetting meaningless gadget; and high-dollar impulse purchase made instantly valueless by the end of a return policy grace period.

Things that hold their value are brand-name tools, Star Wars DVD’s, and professional-grade camera gear. Interestingly, these are also the things that I will not be getting rid of. Well, perhaps except the Star Wars DVD’s that I paid $19.99 for three years ago and sold on eBay for $95. What a wonderful accident?

Of all the crap I am getting rid of, my biggest regret is that I didn’t spend my money differently in the past. Instead of mortgage interest, whisks, pie serving knives, and drawer organizers, I wish I had spent the money on gasoline, tires, and photographs. Sure, I did that, too – it’s probably why I’m broke. But as I dump things by the wheel-barrow load that is not resellable, I realize that the American mode of having a little tool for every this-and-that is unnecessary.

I can make sushi on the tailgate of a pickup truck with a Swiss Army Knife, a Coleman camp stove, one pot, some wax paper, and a placemat. I don’t need hand mixers, waffle irons, four frying pans, six copper-bottomed pots, and three Pyrex mixing bowls. Nope. I don’t need much, at all. I don’t even remember the meals I made with all this valueless crap anymore. I don’t have pictures of the food I once made. And I certainly do not feel as though I have lost anything by going minimalist in the RV.

My old lifestyle looks wasteful. It looks like gobs of money out for things that lost their value moments after purchase. It looks like a life spent buying things out of social norm, domestic anxiety, and a lack of creativity to just make due with that I already had. There are things that hold value, but I will cling to those things with my last breath. My Makita ½” drill will be mine until the day it breaks. My truck will be with me until the last day of gasoline or until it throws a rod through the cylinder wall of the engine. My photographs and hard drives are the things I will take with me at the start of any apocalypse. My outdoor gear is my habit – I will care for it like it is the only barrier between me and death. These are the things I value; my tent, camera, time spent with friends and family, and the wheels that connect the dots.

I am no different from anyone else. I have stuff. I have too much stuff. But with this unique disjoint I chose to install in my life a couple years ago, I get to look back on myself through the eyes of someone different. I now feel that my RV is too much. All I want is a tent and an endless tank of gasoline. The things I have spent so much time and money on throughout my past now haunt and puzzle me. The only things that matter are the things that keep me safe, keep my creativity possible and flowing; that keep my things in good repair; that allow me to build new things, and that give me a pathway to experience and mobility that I live for. The rest of it is just dead weight. It is time to shed the dead weight and live better for the things that actually matter.

My generation is a waste of biomass, but one thing we are doing right is to seek experience over materialism. I can finally see that and I hope to live in a way that feels right from here on. The value of things lies in the ability of the thing to hold its value or to tremendously contribute regular utility to one’s life. The value of things, most importantly, is in where it takes you and the memories it allows you to make. Piles of junk are the antithesis of experience.