In observing life’s ordinary objects, I find it interesting to consider their origins, and their paths and uses, but I am most fascinated by where things end up. A stone in a field, a knit wool sweater, a computer chip; they each undergo a journey, contain a history, and have hidden, untold tales, with beginnings and endings. As Nabokov notes in Transparent Things, an item as seemingly simple as a pencil has a story that is lengthy and complex: “Thus the entire little drama, from crystallized carbon and felled pine to this humble implement, to this transparent thing, unfolds in a twinkle.”

Many of our things find their end in the garbage; the typical American denouement. Some crumble back into the earth, and others are recycled. I remember witnessing, with awe, the Fresh Kills landfill, which covered 2,200 acres of Staten Island, and at the peak of its operation, in 1986, received 29,000 tons of residential waste per day. I once knew a couple living in Vermont who didn’t have a garbage can, only compost and recycling. This blew my mind a little bit. Here in Oakland, our liquids flow with gravity and find the bay. The spoiled milk, wine we drink, my shaven whiskers, all come to a quiet rest in the surrounding water.

When I lived in Alphabet City, I used to confront litterers. “You dropped something,” I’d say to the teenager throwing down a candy wrapper. The response was more often hostile than gracious, but I’d registered my disapproval. Occasionally, someone would throw a plastic bottle from their car window, and I would take it from the sidewalk and throw it back into the vehicle. I once left my apartment on St. Mark’s place and watched someone open their car door and drop an empty soda can while stopped at a light. Since their window was unopened, I took the can and jammed it into the rim of their back wheel. The muscle bound driver, and his passenger, emerged quickly and angrily. “Did you just touch my car?” He roared. I stuttered, “Y-Y-You can’t just drop trash in the street.” He told me that, in fact, he could, and he was getting ready to punch me in the head, when I heard a voice behind me. It was the owner of Rags-a-Go-Go, the consignment shop below my apartment. “What’s going on here?” She asked. I quickly explained myself and, as a woman appeared beside her, she turned to the driver and said “Well, my girlfriend’s a kick boxer and she will kick your fucking ass!” She said it as though there were no question in her mind. There was a brief silence, then they got back in the car and drove away. I thanked my neighbors, walked to work with my heart in my throat, and made a note to be more careful, lest I find myself sleeping with the fishes.

I’m no longer one to tell folks what to do, but while the world’s turning upside down, and we’re forming new habits, some wasteful and some regenerative, let’s remember to prioritize stewardship over convenience. Take what you need, dispose of it properly, and take care of each other. And feel free to bring back the blue Oakland Yard six pack bags you’ve got piling up in your pantry; we have a designated quarantine corner where they’ll rest until they’re safe to reuse.

Cheers,

Max