August 3, 2002 For eighteen years, I lived in the same house. It has all grown, changed, and aged as I did. Imperfections have been concealed, broken parts linger out of sight, and the clutter has become familiar as the river. Surely as the backyard is tainted with goose crap, half the kitchen table is covered by a stack of newspapers. There is no need to address the metaphor of growing accustomed to messiness.
11:32 am
My room is the one section my life I can control. Potential projects as well as those I never intend to complete are packed away. Sometimes envelopes organize the disparate concepts within Godiva tins or plain shoe boxes. Scouring shelves, cabinets, drawers and the closet used to be an episodic event. Diving headfirst into the world of broken jewelry, dead pens, and revealing documents, my mission was to recognize the rubbish. What of the unused, ignored breed did I have no problem getting rid of? Tossing junk into a big, black garbage bag and calling it catharsis grew easier as I realized the value of empty space. Stuff can define me no more than a clean area.
It used to be a ritual, a cleansing of sorts. Once I threw out all I could threw out, I averted my eyes to some of the tawdry nonsense on my walls. How many pictures of Nirvana did I think were necessary to displace my self worth? Where is the art in a magazine ad reading, in green on black, Talk to the dead. Have sex with aliens. Disappear? Granted, it looked cool, and bore some semblance to the chaotic fragmentation of my own mind. There was no order to it, however. As previously mentioned, I addressed this by recovering the walls in a manner harmonious with the Feng Shui life areas. It was for fun, organizational purposes, and to help the colors flow. Whether or not I feel better has yet to be discerned, but it looks better.
After a New York Times article disclosed the revelations within a Feng Shui analysis, my Dad hopped on the bandwagon. Reading about finances drained by a river flowing behind someone's house drew him in. Also, front doors are usually in the career gua of the house, ruled by the water element. Red is associated with fire, and will draw the wrong type of energy. In the article, someone painted over a red door (like ours) and watched the cash roll in. I see your red door and I want it painted black...
The general clutter is irritating, but I have learned to live with it. My Mom has no time for anything, wants to get rid of junk, and claims my Dad wants to as well: her stuff. My Dad feels imposed upon by Mom's desire clear out crap, assuming it's all his stuff. It's not just furniture. There are psychology books spanning the decades (belonging to both parents), boxes of records (Dad's), unused office supplies and stationery (Mom's), a broken recliner and ancient television set (Dad's), numerous music boxes, figurines and other "tcotchkes" (Mom's). I never realized how much friction there is regarding space and whose abandoned junk is more worthy of its occupation. Do not get me wrong; my parents never fight. It is just interesting to observe the tension perpetuated by the utterly frivolous. Especially now that my Dad began to do something about it.
He claims the energy in the house has an enormous draining effect. Failing to point out the obvious (he has cancer), I listened to his recent Feng Shui findings. The way things are aligned, the front door with the staircase with the bathroom, is detrimental. He has a "secret arrow" (a corner adjacent to his chair) pointing at him whenever he watches the History channel. Aw, shucks. Then we got to talking about the great clutter debate, paintings of my Mom's he hates, and Feng Shui basics. For example, the Family area of the downstairs happens to be in the living room. Ruled by the Earth element, metal is a no-no. Moving our metal fireplace seems more difficult than repositioning the wind chimes. He seemed motivated however, to do the research, get things in order, and dispel any energy-trapping odium. Good for him. He has invested time and effort enhancing his body's immune response. Improving the surroundings cannot hurt. Languishing atmospheres can seriously impede one's ability to heal. Exhibit A: Cranford High School.
I ran this by my Mom later than evening, who responded as she had before. He puts his stuff wherever he pleases, leaving her to make do with what's left. Of course there is truth in that. Regardless of what is to be done, I found the whole situation quite amusing. My parents are finally addressing the egregiousness of the clutter they have held onto for years.
Even with Soma, I tossed and turned, sleeping in two or three hour segments, reading, going online, sleeping some more. I crashed at five when the sky began to lighten. When I rose again at eight-thirty, I was surprised by what I saw. My Dad, having repossessed the mantle, covered the dining room table with items of my mother's, and some of his own (mostly gifts). Among the disregarded are small painted bird statues and other decorative ceramic pieces, candle holders, a broken clock or two, a tin plate picturing Santa Claus surrounded by holly, and a good old conch shell. Photographs were lined up on a ledge beside the mantle, fighting for space, confounding focus. After selecting his favorites and paring down the display by half, he set the rest face down on the table. The pictures chosen to sit above his chair are what I find curious. Two are of him in his earlier days, and there are two of each of his first two daughters. A print of Kwan Yin, the Goddess of Compassion, supplanted a Thomas Kinkade painting. All the old Disney videos are also stacked on the table, to make room for... empty cassette holders.
Though I cannot claim to understand the choices he has made, I respect his initiative. Quality of life is of the utmost importance, and if things are making him unhappy, why not set out to change them? It seems inconsiderate for him to pile the dining room table with items he believes are dispensable, but my mother did not seem inclined to do more than express desire to get rid of things. What was she doing from five to eight this morning if not winnowing through junk? Sleeping, of course. It would make sense, since she averages about five hours, six on weekends.
Change intrigues me, as does observing its effects. I can adapt well and grow quite comfortable in relatively numbing environments (coughBOOKSTOREcoughcough), but am keen towards transitions. Whatever happens may not effect me greatly, as I hope to be out of here soon, but it's worth the perusal.
