Ironically, I just picked up an old Utne Reader circa 2001 with an article on eliminating clutter from your life. Maybe I saved it because of the picture of Jean Piaget’sfamously messy desk. (I couldn’t find it now, but I’ve seen it as a poster.)

Anyway, part of the article was about barriers that make you opt for clutter rather than go through life more unencumbered. I think when Pat died, I began to feel a lot less attached to the mountains of shit I had accumulated, which had become a kind of wacky homage to her pack-rattish soul.

During the now I realize rather unfulfilling relationship with the ex, I think some of my junk was an impermeable wall erected to protect myself from the inevitable rejection. You know, why make room for him in my life if he wasn’t going to stay anyway and would probably not even ask to figuratively ‘come in.’

But, now, I’m ready. I’ve been going through shit half amused at why I kept some of the stuff at all. I’ve been picked shit up, looking at it and thinking, “Yeah, I can live without this…” Like the various sheets of fake tattoos I keep finding. I don’t even like tattoos.

Unfortunately, I’ll be 386 years old before I actually achieve the zen simplicity I seek. Let’s hope someone in that distant future has the common sense to sweep up my corpse rather than hold onto it.