phthallo.
two garage sales in mesa county, colorado
the woods / the open road Last month, I roadtripped with a friend across the United States across the span of 4 days, starting in Vermont and ending in San Francisco. In hindsight it was really really stupid. We thought of it at 11pm one night as we played Silksong on the couch. 12 hours later, we were on the road with barely a semblance of a plan. I cannot drive, which most people would say is a pretty strong counterargument to a theoretical two-person roadtrip.
More a month later, I still trace the path we took, marvelling at the places I’ll likely never visit again. The transition from Vermont’s vast forests to the sprawling corn fields of the Midwest, and the incomprehensible beauty of the mesas and mountains of Moab, characterised by long stretches of highway and the wide open sky.
When I was growing up I never thought I’d leave the place I was born in because I could not conceive of a world beyond what I had. But you never know what you’re missing out on until you’ve had a taste for it and now, I do not think I can go back. I find the people that shaped the land we visited endlessly fascinating because they have found themselves building up a life in one place, and yet, here I am, so young and lost in comparison.
Somewhere on a farm in Kansas, we met a couple who told us about the corn they grew. They’d pulled up in a ute from around a tree, catching us at the edge of the field. There, I’d reached up and stretched my arm - and yet the stalks, still taller than me, evaded my grasp.1 I wonder what they thought of us. If we hadn’t turned off the road there, what would have changed? If I hadn’t decided to pack a bag and leave that night, what would’ve happened? If I didn’t say ‘yes’ a year ago, where would I be now? And this is no doubt a common realisation, but everything of significance in my life has come about as a result of risk. I know all this and yet I’m still afraid to take the first step.
In Colorado, we stopped in a place called Fruitvale - a small town surrounded by large mountains.
The women at the first yard sale we visited told us to make sure to come back the next weekend, because there were more garage sales planned. No, we wouldn’t be back. Lovely people, no doubt, but I’ll never see that place again. The people at the second one told us it was an estate sale. Someone had lived and died here as one of the less-than-ten-thousand residents of Fruitvale, Colorado. We were strangers to this area and yet we ambled inside the house they’d probably lived in for dozens of years, picking through their belongings clinically arranged and tagged on tables.
starting fresh
Several years back I remember: at a garage sale: picking up an encyclopedia and my family carried a cabinet, or a wardrobe, or something of that sort, all the way back to our house. We never ran one of our own, but I still think of that green papier-mâché bowl I made when I was 6 dutifully carrying a Jin Chan2 on its back. A child’s work that had stood the test of time. Say that my home of 10+ years was to be emptied, ready to be sold or refurbished or whatever else, and there lies the final test - what would happen to it? Would it be discarded; crushed easily in the palm of a hand and tossed in a rubbish bag? Would it be laid on a table, tentatively picked up by a stranger who looks at it and knows nothing of its history?
Now that so many more Hack Clubbers are here in Vermont, HQ3 does cleanouts on the regular. With dozens of people flitting in and out of these buildings each day, it’s easy enough to accumulate memorabilia - paintings and shrines and polaroids showcasing a glimpse into the past. I adore the personality that these miscellaneous office objects bring. This building is shaped by the people who worked and played there long before I came here and will continue to be modelled by those who come after me, too.4
Regardless, there are so many things that are filled with unknowns because the last people who knew what they meant were here so long ago. There are pictures on the walls and ceilings of people who are no longer recognised, and usernames scrawled on whiteboards and walls that are no longer known. The items that are not claimed in these cleanouts are trashed or left outside for people to take.
One of the casualties of these cleanouts that I still think about is a book that haunted a small shelving rack near my desk for months. Later, I’d find out that it was a copy read and recommended by former Hack Clubbers and HQ’ers from years prior.
When I leave this place, I wonder who will take over the desk I sit at. I wonder what will happen to the plants I’ve been growing, side by side next to the window of the sun room. I think about the people who were here before. If you look hard enough, you can find old photos of different configurations in different times.
sonder
The phenomenon known as ‘sonder’ is defined as:
The profound feeling of realizing that everyone, including strangers passing in the street, has a life as complex as one’s own, which they are constantly living despite one’s personal lack of awareness of it.
I never see sonder used outside of self-referential posts online, though. Like the word petrichor, I associate it with a specific brand of overly poetic, all-lowercase romanticised Tumblr post. Does the fact that it was actually made in 2012 as part of a Tumblr blog (the Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows5) discount how relevant of a human experience it is? It is natural for people to make art and words and song to bring meaning to their experiences over time, which is beautiful. I only really, I think, started feeling the profoundness of sonder after I left Adelaide. This isn’t to say that the people in my home city do not live complex lives but rather to emphasise just how sheltered I was before I moved out. I could’ve lived and probably died there without knowing the depth of the world outside.
Nowadays I live life knowing so many more people from all around the world who have done awesome things and built incredible projects. I’m not used to it and I’d admit this willingly over text and less so in face-to-face conversation. I find it hard to maintain relationships. But I’m grateful for them nonetheless.
music
The description of this post references songs of the indicated names by Australian indie band Hollow Coves. While I think they romanticise travel quite a bit, I don’t mind. We all need to be a tiny bit delusional to keep on going.