Your Life is Garbage
Today we're writing a biography for your late grandfather.
I bet he was a great man, but how exactly are we going to piece his life together? He may have had some old pieces of writing lying around: letters, journals, or other miscellaneous documents. That seems like enough right?
Wrong. These formal writings do not give us the full picture. Think of all the things he might have written that have been thrown away. How many new perspectives could be gained from reading those recycled pages? We may never find out, but the point I’m trying to make is this: your life is garbage, and you’re underestimating that fact.
I’m not saying that your life is meaningless (unless it is, in which case it’s still not my problem). I’m saying that we, as human beings, tend to ignore how much our lives are represented within our trash, or other things we deem worthless. We can be very different writers when we know that what we write will be preserved. But equally important is what we choose to write when we aren’t obligated to keep it.
A few weeks ago, I was rummaging through some old school papers of mine. I came across several sheets of scratch paper covered in calculations from a math textbook I read several years ago. I had arranged my work into neat rows with even spacing and labels for each problem, all written in my classic hyper-neat handwriting, which I spend way too much time trying to get right. I wouldn’t call those problem sheets “artwork” per se, but they were at least neat enough for me to not throw them away.
In that moment, staring at those old papers, I reflected on the difference between them and the scratch work I produce nowadays. My current philosophy regarding scratch work is akin to that of a trash compactor handling garbage: cram as much math onto the paper as humanly possible, then when I’m done, crumple it up, send it into the great beyond, and move the hell on with my life. I’ve stopped caring about making the paper look good. For a decent amount of time, I never even labeled my problems. The only saving grace is that my handwriting is still reasonably neat, so the papers look like more than just TV static.
I’m not unorganized, I’m just being efficient.
So how did I go from neatly arranging my calculations in nice little rows to the mathematical equivalent of vomiting all over my paper? Well, the truth is: I haven’t really changed. I still write my notes neatly if I know I’m going to keep them. But somewhere along the line I remembered that the whole point of scratch paper is to serve as a dump of random thoughts that you don’t need to keep around, and after that I just stopped caring. Here’s the thing though, the new papers are a perfectly valid representation of the way I actually do math. Problems are still being solved. New skills are still being learned. A story is being told on every sheet. Maybe there is value in the garbage after all.
I know it’s such a weird problem to have: not caring enough about literal, actual trash. Still, I’ve developed an appreciation for all those papers I threw out. Maybe it’s because I value their educational symbolism, maybe it’s because I’m crazy, maybe it’s both. In any case, when we go searching for information about your grandfather, hopefully we won’t forget to look in the trash bin. And sure, there are things about your grandfather that we will never be able to know. But it’s at least better to acknowledge that those things are missing even if we will never find them. It’s better than ignoring them completely. Like it or not, our lives are garbage, and that’s ok.
I bet he was a great man, but how exactly are we going to piece his life together? He may have had some old pieces of writing lying around: letters, journals, or other miscellaneous documents. That seems like enough right?
Wrong. These formal writings do not give us the full picture. Think of all the things he might have written that have been thrown away. How many new perspectives could be gained from reading those recycled pages? We may never find out, but the point I’m trying to make is this: your life is garbage, and you’re underestimating that fact.
I’m not saying that your life is meaningless (unless it is, in which case it’s still not my problem). I’m saying that we, as human beings, tend to ignore how much our lives are represented within our trash, or other things we deem worthless. We can be very different writers when we know that what we write will be preserved. But equally important is what we choose to write when we aren’t obligated to keep it.
A few weeks ago, I was rummaging through some old school papers of mine. I came across several sheets of scratch paper covered in calculations from a math textbook I read several years ago. I had arranged my work into neat rows with even spacing and labels for each problem, all written in my classic hyper-neat handwriting, which I spend way too much time trying to get right. I wouldn’t call those problem sheets “artwork” per se, but they were at least neat enough for me to not throw them away.
In that moment, staring at those old papers, I reflected on the difference between them and the scratch work I produce nowadays. My current philosophy regarding scratch work is akin to that of a trash compactor handling garbage: cram as much math onto the paper as humanly possible, then when I’m done, crumple it up, send it into the great beyond, and move the hell on with my life. I’ve stopped caring about making the paper look good. For a decent amount of time, I never even labeled my problems. The only saving grace is that my handwriting is still reasonably neat, so the papers look like more than just TV static.
I’m not unorganized, I’m just being efficient.
So how did I go from neatly arranging my calculations in nice little rows to the mathematical equivalent of vomiting all over my paper? Well, the truth is: I haven’t really changed. I still write my notes neatly if I know I’m going to keep them. But somewhere along the line I remembered that the whole point of scratch paper is to serve as a dump of random thoughts that you don’t need to keep around, and after that I just stopped caring. Here’s the thing though, the new papers are a perfectly valid representation of the way I actually do math. Problems are still being solved. New skills are still being learned. A story is being told on every sheet. Maybe there is value in the garbage after all.
I know it’s such a weird problem to have: not caring enough about literal, actual trash. Still, I’ve developed an appreciation for all those papers I threw out. Maybe it’s because I value their educational symbolism, maybe it’s because I’m crazy, maybe it’s both. In any case, when we go searching for information about your grandfather, hopefully we won’t forget to look in the trash bin. And sure, there are things about your grandfather that we will never be able to know. But it’s at least better to acknowledge that those things are missing even if we will never find them. It’s better than ignoring them completely. Like it or not, our lives are garbage, and that’s ok.
MXW
1.24.2025
After reading your essay, I wasn't sure which prompt you were responding, but it was clear to me that you approached it in a meaningful way. The latter parts of the essay reveal more about who you are as a person by describing your approach to clutter and scratchwork. Thinking differently about garbage emphasized your value of the process rather than the outcome.
ReplyDeleteI did get confused about the point of the essay before you started talking about yourself and the old papers. It felt like you were giving advice rather than setting up the discussion for your personal experiences. The use of 2nd person seemed a bit out of place when I was reading it, but I can see why it might make sense for this context. Overall a thoughtful and insightful response.
Hello Michael,
ReplyDeleteGarbage. I believe the word is a bit misleading at first, as many consider it the discards of our lives that provide no meaning to us. But then your essay brought up an elegant interpretation of the definition of "garbage"; though it may not hold much value to ourselves, it presents a unique opportunity to understand a bit more about our identities.
I enjoyed the indirection of your opening statements, it brings a taste of genuine reflection towards the essence of identity and where our ideas truly spawn from. Is our conscience a bottomless pit that cannot be definitively navigated? Perhaps not, since our gibberish may actually mean something. These notes describe who we are, how we do things, but most importantly, how we have changed. Ultimately, this is not garbage, but it also might be some "garbage" that you can come back to in the future and relish the opportunity to peer into the window that is "Michael Wu's Blue Shoes".
Best,
Henry Wang