Sunday, 25 January 2004 | Attachments

Most of the things I own are either old or have noticeable imperfections. My $25 couch is sprouting foaming cotton at the corners like a rabid dog, in exchange for keeping my cats' claws in good condition. The walls of my apartment are decorated with several slightly damaged paintings and posters (mostly because it's stuff I found rather than bought). The furniture I painted years ago is starting to molt like a snake, and my (used) bike is scratched and has mismatched handlebar grips. Many of my clothes are either second-hand or have seen too many laundromat dryers and have shrunk or faded; in some cases, they've been awkwardly repaired with thread (and even glue) rather than discarded.

My car (which lives in NC and is almost 300,000 miles old) is dented and unbathed and has a host of quirks, like needing its dashboard banged for the clock to work and its window shoved for the window to close. My SLR camera has a hairline crack, only half of my stereo's tape deck can be trusted, and my VCR has an eating disorder. My cell phone and computer are from another age, before color screens (cell phone) and CD burners (computer) became standard. My stereo speakers were a gift to my parents at their wedding, in 1968.

Out of those items, the only things I would replace without hesitation would be the VCR and the tape deck (although I would probably feel some guilt about both, as they were given to me by my parents and brother, respectively). The rest of my stuff I'm fiercely attached to, even if I'm the only one able to recognize its appeal. Replacement is hard.

I don't like my new laptop. It came in the mail Friday, and immediately I found it strikingly big and ugly (and too new). It's blue (I didn't know to expect that), and its AC adapter is literally the size of a brick. I've been setting it up this weekend, adding programs and files and customizing the menus, which has helped, but I'm very drawn to my old machine, which still commands the desk and still gets lots more attention (like right now).

I'm willing to admit that it's due, in part, to an element of sentimentality (for a MACHINE, yes, I know). It has occurred to me that virtually everything I know about computers has been taught to me via this 7-pound box of wires and chips and bizarre little parts, and this is the beast that I have stared at for hours and hours while learning how to combine words and pictures and web design.

Anyway, it's going to a good home; it's going to live in Berlin, with Ingo's parents, despite its American plug and its smaller alphabet. Tomorrow, I think, I'm going to gut it—delete all of the things that make it mine—after I have finished the transfer. I'm certain I'll like the new one soon enough, or at least I hope I will. It's nicer, technically.