Sunday, April 06, 2008

Spring Cleaning Fever

"I'd say that I have Spring Fever, but I really haven't cleaned..."

I have worked out this miraculous routine where I blog with the right brain and clean house with the left. I am sure that some enterprising techie has already found a way to put electrodes from their brainwaves into biomachines that can be directed independently to do the household chores and the task of sorting, filing, and discarding the accumulated trash of Fall and Winter, but I just amble along in my multitask mode doing these jobs the old-fashioned way.

So here I am, knee deep in the remains of Winter, somewhat overwhelmed by the accumulation of the past. As I examine the rubrics and the artifacts, the documents, the fliers, unopened solicitations, cables, equipment, posters, books, newspapers, magazines, charge slips, receipts, ticket stubs, Christmas cards, Christmas wrappings, CDs, DVDs, notes, jottings, plastic bags (empty and filled), I am astounded at the way this accumulation has taken on the status of junk... amazed at how, even in such a short time, paper and plastic can deteriorate to such a state of degradation, and how dust and grime crawl over everything like creatures from another dimension. I am even more amazed that at the time, this rubbish did not seem to merit being thrown away. It is, after all, such elegant litter because it's mine.

I begin by sorting the layers into piles. This seems to take forever, and in the end, I realize that I have merely redistributed the trash. Now I walk between the stacks rather than scurry over rubble. At least I can see portions of the floor winking at me from between the mounds.

Winking, because the debris, the floor, and Time know they have me. They know that the ultimate demon is accumulation. The end of everything is unchecked, unfettered accumulation. I am a mere mortal and the forces of the Universe are now in unison in their conspiracy. Spring cleaning, Spring fever teeter on the edge of my extinction. I wish there were a Blackhole right in the middle of this room so I could blame quantum physics on the loss of such sophisticated junk. If only some catastrophic comet might obliterate these piles with a cosmic zap!

Yet, here I remain, immobilized in the midst of my journey to a true, unencumbered Spring, blocked by the wretched refuse of my cluttered past.

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