Well, lads and lasses, I've been wishing for water, and I got it.
Chris, Stewart and I went to see shrek on Thursday night. When we got home, I opened the door, and over Luna’s excited noise and Chris' bonky boy noises (keys, big boots, fussing at Lu), I heard some horrible sound.
It was my washer. It was spraying a huge jet of water up into the air in my bedroom, directly onto the top of the cabinet where I keep my photo albums and onto the stacks of books next to my bed. The floor was an inch deep in water, and it was pouring out into the rest of the house. There was no light in the room because the power strip had cut off (thank goddess) and there is no overhead light. After going into a horrible, destructive rage, kicking over chairs, knocking the fan across the room (it exploded into parts), hitting the wall repeatedly, throwing the brooms out into the yard, storming outside and kicking all of my garbage cans into the woods*, then breaking down and crying until I was almost sick**, we assessed the worst of the damage, rescued as many books and photos as possible, picked my wet art up off the floor, and started laying it out to dry. Chris suggested calling Stewart and asking if we could come and crash. We did, and after Chris got out of class the next morning (he left early to come help me) we began to tackle the cleanup.
I managed to save most of my photos - all of the really important ones*** as well as my art. It will have to be ironed, and then I have to see if it is water stained. If it's ok, I’m going to sell it all on my web page. A lot of my books were ruined, but they were mostly easily replaceable ones. My heart was most broken at losing my beautiful art paper that was given to me by Paul and Diana for my birthday - fat flax clay coated Bristol board (this is Sam-porn paper), a whole huge pad, short one single page - and the big drawing pad that Sarah gave me for same birthday. Trying to save my photos and art and a few very important books was pretty intense and nerve-wracking, too. The photos are, of course, the most important, and I think that the damage to them will be undetectable. I also went and bought some new Rubbermaid tubs to store them in from now on.

So, what did I learn from this? Well, that I have a long way to go, Zen-wise, for one thing. I realized that I was SO angry and upset, raging and crying, because I was mad at myself for being so attached to STUFF. I broke down in Chris' arms and told him - almost to my own surprise - that my life has taught me that it is terribly dangerous to be so attached to anything, but especially STUFF. Some things really never change. I have been hurt in the past by being referred to by close friends as “broken”, but it’s true.
I was upset because I have so much stuff, and all of it means something to me. My house (the building, the yard, the stuff) is overwhelming to me, and I can’t have that. I can’t have the burden of owning so much that I can lose, so much that can hold me to a place, so much that I have to be responsible for. I have decided to try really hard to get rid of as much as possible. I have decided that there will be no limits on the amount of art supplies that I own – because that is my life and livelihood; and no limit on my Legos, because I just don’t have that many, and if I lost them, it wouldn’t kill me. Books are going to be hard – but I can do it. I can limit myself (one tub of National Geog's, 10 favorite Playboys, 10 key philosophy books, etc.) Same with my sentimental objects. I will just have to give them (sparingly – I don’t want to overwhelm all my friends and family either) to people who can and will appreciate them.
I will try to sell a lot of my art – because it is just not doing me any good sitting in my house, making me stress about something happening to it. Someone could be enjoying it (at least, I hope…).
I can’t limit my photos either – I’m a replicant. But I can scan and save and share many of them (Stewart has already done that with many of them) and try to keep them safe, store them "small" and portable. I can limit my sentimental stuff to two trunks, and the rest goes to yard sale or Ebay.

So, if you’re in the mood to own some bigger pieces of Sam art, let me know. And if you don’t want to be on my “SAX-list” - “Sam-Artifacts for Xmas” - say so. Otherwise, you may be gifted with some of my dearest possessions, whether you like it or not. I've gotten rid of a lot of things over the years (though OBVIOUSLY not enough), so the things that remain are very dear indeed, and I promise not to burden anyone with too much.

Wish me luck – and send good thoughts out to Chris, who really is one of the best guys in the whole wide world ever. He is patient, and kind, and beautiful, and he really knows me AND really likes me AND is still able to stand up for himself in the midst of all of this. He also turns me on (this is way important) and makes me laugh and isn’t afraid of me or my past and all it’s sundry fallout. He also knows EXACTLY what to do in the midst of Sam-rage, and this is amazing in and of itself, and he loves me, and I know this beyond a shadow of a doubt. Even after I kicked the chair and fan across the room****.

Peace, beloveds.
-Sam

*I’d like to professionally recommend this as a VERY satisfying form of venting with a minimum of destruction, by the way.
"9 out of 10 pissed-off psychos say..."
**Chris, bless his sweet heart, stood patiently aside (I suspect this was a form of possibly subconscious camouflage, ala hiding from the dinosaurs in Jurassic park) while I raged, and then when he realized that he was safe, even if the furniture wasn't, began to mop up the water. Then when I had gotten over the worst of the crying, he came and put his arms around me and said "It'll be alright, honey. We'll take care of it." moo. LOTS of boy-points for Mr. Riddle.
***Growing up in the !@#$'d up situations i did teaches you a lot of practical and amazing skills.
****props, too, to my beloved Rory, who survived a fit-flung TYPEWRITER rage. :(
Please let me say in my own defense that these rages are VERY rare, I can count them all on one hand, I think. I can’t even remember when the last one was, prior to this one. I am ashamed of them all, and yet I cannot deny the truth of them, the source of them, or even the necessity of them. And, not since I was a kid, have I hurt anyone in the midst of one. Apparently I did at least once as a kid, I saw the resultant scar on the human being I love most in the world last summer, and even if neither of us can forgive me for the injury, at least I know that both of us understand this rage better than anybody else ever could.