clutter

I love visual clutter. I love shape, color, pattern, texture. I love my mind be constantly stimulated by things that please my sensibilities. I like to categorize it as that. Hoarder is a bit too depressing. My father was an extreme classic hoarder and would travel to see us with his car loaded with odds and ends. He was heavily into collecting religious things the last few years of his life. Rosaries, crucifixes, pictures, statues, any cast off trinket with a holy image.

It wasn’t always so.

Growing up we had one junk room. It was filled with reel to reels, stereos, record players, records, cameras manual and video, Everything you could dream of electronic. He never used many of them but he spent a lot of money on anything new and promising. He just rarely got around to learning how to use them.

He went through a plant period too.

All these things stayed with him until the end and his modest sized house and three cars bore the mark of his obsessions in a profound and sobering way. I should have never bought anything else ever.

The void.

After his death and the death a month later of my grandmother things changed. I discovered shopping. After skillfully avoiding the larger traps of consumer frenzy I dug right into it’s decadent mindset and claimed it’s nifty spoils. My clothing habit became what I had always dreamed it could be and I found new things to want and need and buy.

The picture is a composite of my horrible green walls and room in progress. It’s been in progress since about the time I turned seven.

So here I am hoarded and frustrated with the things that have no place to go.

I have to get rid of loads of things. But I have space. Misused space. Shelves and half filled storage drawers for all those oddities that I mean to so something with, like making Cornell boxes and rockets to the moon. I have made progress getting rid of a lot and the fight against nature and nurture is one I must win. I have to rewire my brain. Reject that vision of figurative Victoriana and it’s clutter lacy floral dreams with the doilies on top of it’s head.

The true coup in the country won’t be political or economic. It will people with closets like I have and those with walk-ins. When it happens, and it will happen, every shoe, purse and article of clothing will have a home. It can give smart dinner parties and decorate for Christmas. They will bake pies and feed the hungry. The world and the peoples thereof will be in a state of constantly being snuggled. It will be lovely.

I’ll be liberated but cozy. Surrounded by what I love the most.

I will build that rocket too.

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