| My
roommate and I have recently moved (like this is a shock to
anyone who knows me), and in the wake of said upheaval I have
come to realize that how one arranges one’s abode reflects
the inner peace that one may achieve within it. While, at
first, I was at the end of my wits--expending any creative
energy I had in order to create a decent flow to the place--I
have now come to terms with the fact that I suck at visualizing
the set-up of a house and that I am much better suited to
lawnwork and the insidious use of the power given us by our
house.
In less lucid moments, then, I was conjuring images of myself,
first floating upon then sinking beneath an undulating sea
of boxes. I began by clinging to the side of a packing crate
labeled as fragile, but it soon foundered under its own weight.
Then, I clung to a piece of cardboard with packing tape, trailing
off in the waves. Finally, my fingers slipped from the floor
lamp that could have been used as an oar if only the right
pallet had drifted past me.
Fortunately, I worked past this trauma. In its stead, my images
became those of boxes of books landing squarely on my chest.
All that would remain visible were my arms and legs twitching
in the throes of agony from a very literary death. In other
words--where the hell did all of this stuff come from?
For six months I had lived comfortably with the now clearly
mistaken idea that I remained well within the confines of
a minimal existence. I was acutely aware of the big stuff--the
davenport, the bookcases, the desks and tables--and as usual,
moving said articles was simple, straightforward, and required
only muscle and the truck. However, I had stubbornly looked
through or beyond all the little stuff, which was, in the
end, the stuff that sent me just about round the bend.
The photos, the magnets, the candlesticks. The extra light
bulbs, the back-up batteries, the trashcans, the remote controls.
The camp chairs, the volleyball, the Christmas ornaments.
The Lysol, the laundry basket, the change jar, the extra wine
corks.
There I sat on the sofa, the one space I had successfully
cleared, and I looked out of the caldera in which I sat, seconds
from being swept away when the volcano of stuff blew. I hearkened
back to a simpler time (not so far back that Maw and Paw and
the young’uns climbed into the Conestoga with naught
but the clothes they stood up in, but…) when all I had
to think about moving were a couple suitcases, a backpack
and a CD case because that’s all that I could carry
on a plane. I recalled just a few years ago when everything
I could or would take with me fit neatly in the bed of Miss
Kitty.
Just what the hell do I do with it all?
Having never been much for stuff, I am rather inept at arranging
said material, and oh, let me throw in one more detail that
will undoubtedly make you snigger all the more at me--the
poor, décor challenged, erstwhile minimalist--our new
place is round.
Yeah. Hmmm.
 As
if just implementing a floor plan wasn’t a daunting
enough task for yours truly, there are only three corners
into which to shove things that I could not otherwise use
somewhere in the middle of the room. Oh, buddy, is it a cool
architectural statement, and given the time and allowed to
have supreme decorative power, I could have set up a bitchin’
place; but I had neither of these. I was required to work
within the confines of the extent furniture and goods.
You best believe that the second my roommate got home, all
decisions upon this topic reverted to him whose stuff most
of the matter appeared to be.
Lest you begin to think me an ungrateful wench for venting
my frustrations with the sorting and stashing of stuff, believe
me when I say that without this adventure I would not have
gotten to stand on my new lanai, flipping burgers on the grill--left
for us by our departed comrade. Nor shall I belittle the fact
that, because I now live where I do, I can stand in my driveway,
Guinness in hand, and stare up at the stars and out into Kailua
Bay with only my roommate to catch me and decide that I’m
daft. Finally, without this stellar new abode, I would not
have been scared shitless one afternoon as I glanced up out
of the window and saw a gnome looking right back at me.
Yes indeed, loads of character this maison circulaire
of ours. Garden gnomes, broken surfboards and penguins, who
hang out by the tiki torches. And there is the added benefit
of being new tenants--the “weird ones”--that none
of the neighbors knows. I have this pleasing daydream that
children will start disappearing from the neighborhood and
we will soon have a crowd of canoe paddle and torch-waving
commoners ascending our driveway in search of the bubbling
cauldron where I have undoubtedly rendered their progeny in
a ragout of peppercorns and Madeira wine. Yesssss.
Step into my lair, said the spider to the fly. |
