Clutter

Clutter: (n) untidy

It’s all about square footage.

If you’re a person that grew up in a large house with plenty of room to spare, you probably believe that where you place things is not terribly important. After all, there’s always more expanse.

But if you grew up in a house where the walls always seemed to be creeping inward, you quickly understood that you could clutter the room by taking off your coat and laying it on the couch instead of hanging it up.

Perhaps this is why rich people have maids and housekeepers. Having additional living space to clutter, they require assistance about placement and cleanliness.

For many years, I traveled on the road. This required a motel room. You learn very quickly in that space that two towels placed in the wrong location and a pair of shoes discarded in the path, could make the room look a mess and have you tripping and falling flat on your face.

So I do not know whether it’s possible to teach someone who thinks there are unlimited regions for collecting junk that placing things in order simplifies life.

But we all must be honest and admit that we would like to know that we are cluttered–before someone else has to tell us to “straighten up.”

 

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American Dream

dictionary with letter A

American dream: (n) the traditional social ideals of the U.S., such as equality, democracy and material prosperity.

I think the American dream has been over-analyzed by Freudian pundits and politicians who plan on using their own interpretation to bring about the enactment of their particular will.

I’m not so sure I agree with the Republicans that every American wants a gun.

Likewise, the more liberal view of the Democrats concerning giving people license to do whatever they want to under the guise of civil rights doesn’t achieve much more than an emotional traffic jam.

I’ll tell you what I think the American dream is: Hunk, Chunk, Junk.

I think the power of freedom in this country, with the intelligent use of capitalism, enables me to go out and get my hunk. I should have every right to do that. If it doesn’t infringe on the needs of others or hurt my fellow-man and woman, I should be applauded for my efforts and be given a barn to store my bounty.

Then from that hunk, I should get my chunk. This is probably where people will disagree with me. Lots of folks think they need every single dime they earn to cover their own personal indebtedness. If that’s the case, you’ll spend your life pretty miserable. I should be able to break off a chunk from my hunk that will make me happy and keep me in grits, gravy, gravel and glee.

What remains from my hunk actually becomes my junk. Things I don’t need. Things I don’t want anymore. It’s a startling but true statement that if everybody in America emptied their attics and garages of all the things they haven’t used in the past six months, and gave them to their neighbors, 75% of the personal needs of others would be fulfilled.

It’s not treasure if moths and rust are corrupting it and it’s being stolen by time and depreciation.

Get rid of your junk.

Bless someone else. They won’t think it’s junk.

They will treasure it as their hunktheir American dream.

 

 

Adjunct

Words from Dic(tionary)

dictionary with letter A

Adjunct (n): a thing added to something else as a supplement rather than an essential part

I think it’s misspelled. It would be so much easier to understand if the word was “addjunk.”

Really, that’s what we all do. We add a bunch of junk to our lives as we journey, convincing ourselves that it’s priceless, only to spend most of our time shuffling it around from place to place, even though it is inconvenient and infrequently used.

About ten years ago I came to the realization that the only power in getting older was in being smart enough to travel lighter. I had so much unusable, often unrecognizable material hanging around me, like unwanted relatives stopping in for a loan, that I was often baffled as to whether there was enough space for me to live and breathe.

It was stupid. I had added so much junk to my human trailer that I was beginning to resemble white trash on my way to NASCAR. (This is not to say that ALL people who go to NASCAR are white trash. I speak by permission, putting into practice comedy, and quite bluntly, the law of averages.)

So what did I do? I started giving away everything I had not used in the previous sixty days. It was astounding–because things that I did not view as worthy of a two-month connection were valuable to others around me–sometimes even a life saver. I looked generous.

Now, I wasn’t really generous. It was a practical move to make sure there was enough oxygen in the room for me and my necessaries. In no time at all, I had grown lean and mean, and at my fingertips were all the goodies that I preferred, which by the way, were much easier to locate since they weren’t hiding under the freeloaders.

The second thing I did was I decided to live. Now I’m not talking about sucking in air or planning a shaving and bathing schedule.

If I wanted to do it, if it was practical, fruitful and in the spectrum of my abilities–I just did it.

Is there anything worse than people who are aging, who both lament getting older and also constantly offer regrets about their lack of accomplishment?

Shut up. It’s addjunk.

It seems that many people over fifty have only used their time and energy to practice becoming professional complainers. Here’s the key: give and live.

Give away everything you don’t need and live out what you want to do, and in the process find out if it was worth tackling.

I realize that to some degree this essay has nothing to do with the definition, but you can take that up with my boss.

(Ha, ha. I don’t HAVE a boss. I gave him away … so I could live.)