As yet another constipated, anal-retentive spring inches it’s way towards opening skies and fertile ground, life waits in anticipation of it’s reluctant arrival. Visions of burning thermal underwear in effigy come and go as temperatures dip below freezing each night. To sleep, perchance to dream… hopes of a second visitation from dear Nora but, instead…more dreams of puzzles with no answers. Ah, but Hamlet was speaking of death…or Maine winters…I’m not sure. I don’t yearn for death unless I can be assured of a glorious reunion with my dogs…a few friends…and fewer family members. No, I yearn for spring and a good ol’ movement…ahem…of all the clutter and doom…that fills my house, my life, and this country.
I was speaking with someone about our fondness for antique malls and flea markets. I love walking around Buckdancer’s Choice, a musical instrument store in Portland. It is a virtual wonderland of gorgeous new and vintage guitars to pick up, hold, smell, strum. Other dreamers roam throughout doing the same…it’s like a brother/sisterhood of sorts. The casual shopper sees mere instruments while we see…smell…strum character, untold stories, unique personalities in rosewood and ebony.
But this friend and I agreed to an odd and somewhat startling emerging thought. That is, we are no longer at ages of acquisition. We are nearing the age of elimination. I feel stuck someplace in between. I want that vintage dobro or that fine imported classical guitar, while also wondering who will end up with my treasured instruments when I’m no longer here to hold…smell…strum them. Of course this involves far more than guitars. This involves things…photos…even memories. At least there is hope that I can once again share these memories with those with whom they were created…if our rather negligent God decides to let us co-habitate in the same heavenly villa.
Meanwhile, all the clutter waits. I’ve never been one to procrastinate but I do tend to overthink my solutions…if there is, in fact, a difference. Relocation plans have begun to take shape from just a huge glob of ideas to something resembling a Blue Ridge mountain with a side of Maine fried scallops. There are new piles! Goodwill here, animal shelter there, dump stuff way over there. The thinning of winter clothes is about to begin and I have way too many coffee mugs.
But as the laxative of spring’s potential nears, I understand that everything will still be darkened by the pall of stench and smoke that hangs over this country. The daily gut punch of network news…to mix metaphors…tends to make hopes and plans pointless. This so-called president is at the center of the stench and smoke…corrupt, ignorant, dishonest, amoral, and dangerous. And yet, I don’t think this bloated nightmare of a human is the source of doom and gloom. No, it is the equally corrupt politicians who look the other way. It is the basket of deplorables, made up of the greedy, blind and stupid, who cheer him. It is a cancer that can only be healed by extensive surgery and removal of an endless number of festering tumors.
I remember the feeling…early sixties. I think it was on Saturday at noon that they rehearsed an air raid siren in case of nuclear attack. I was silently terrified. Then there was the Cuban missile crisis when war was almost certain and the ridiculous promise of “duck and cover” was exposed as a lie. My family discussed fleeing to Canada, still ignorant to the fact that nuclear fallout would follow us. Well, JFK stood his ground and the rest is history. But the cold war continued as did the reality that we were all at the mercy of the power hungry players involved.
Today…I find that everything is colored by the same cloud of pessimism and helplessness. Oh, life does go on. I guess you could call me a hopeful realist. If the dishes are dirty, I clean them. I don’t mind. A clear sink is just one more way to wake to a relaxing morning of coffee, box scores, and an open mind to possibilities. Dogs gotta poop. My clients need me and I need an income. The Red Sox are flawed but winning. Like I said, life goes on.
I believe in Rachel Maddow, the New York Times, and the Washington Post. I read my sports on the Boston Globe website, but they must be owned by the NRA or some trump co-conspirator because they absolutely bury the political corruption that poisons this country. The extent of this corruption is so vast, so deep, so tolerated by the nazi (R) party and the dumbocrats that there seems to be little hope it will end. There might as well be a siren every Saturday at noon to warn us.
Meanwhile the clutter awaits my attention. So much stuff, so little time. No, not time…but motivation. The big purge is one step towards the next phase of my life. Will there be a next phase? Can’t God get up from his sofa and send a few dozen bolts of lightening towards large white buildings in Washington? Everyone knows. Some don’t care despite their Christian beliefs being pillaged on a daily basis. Others don’t care because their bank accounts are growing. Many care but simply don’t have the power or money to sway the greedy, stupid minority.
My American flag that once hung outside in respect for our service men and women when our naval air station was open…and after 9/11 when we were clearly under attack from foreign influence…is now inside. I will be giving it away soon. I have seen much of this country and I love it’s beauty, diversity, small towns, great food, original humble values. But I no longer love this country. To say I did would just be more, pointless political correctness.
If I am to address this clutter, I will do so with my own, selfish purposes. My dogs and I need to be warm in the winter. We need to be near my roots. I will plan my life with no intention of achieving any greater good. I am in a profession where I can make a difference…one person at a time. That will have to suffice. I will hate…from the bottom of my heart and soul…the corrupt, entitled, lying humanoids who run this country…and it won’t matter. My clutter matters…and that will just have to be enough.
