Don't Take Me Seriously - Book - Page 114
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the universe to homelessness,
this latest installment relates to
that artful anthem of
Americana, that clever
conveyance of kitsch, that
timely transferor of trash - the
garage sale.
Now, we're not talking
about the "little" garage sale,
wherein the old lady puts out
her crocheting and repurposed
cat food cans to be adored.
And we're not talking about
the "regular" garage sale - you
know, the one that happens
every weekend, whereby your
neighbor makes his living as a
suburban junk salesman.
What we're talking about
here is that yard-busting,
HOA-aggravating, lifealtering, one-time
extravaganza of off-loading,
through which you release the
accumulated touchstones of
your times back into the
universe so they, and you, can
find new destinies.
I am told this cleansing of
the clutter is also a spiritual
sponging, encouraged in
biblical passages. Through this
letting-go of possessions, you
shed your worldly anchors and
then distribute the proceeds
among the poor for the better
good.
Jim
WALKER
DON’T TAKE ME SERIOUSLY
Since, in this case, the
poor is you, you may then
stride off boldly into the
sunset with a handful of
cash, a revitalized soul and
a new providence.
Well, that's the theory,
anyway.
The problem is, to
achieve this freedom you
have to be ruthless with
your refuse, brutal with
your babies. Each item with
sentimental attachment
embodies yet another
Sophie's Choice to be made.
Will you toss it in the
dumpster and murder it
outright? Will you put it out
in the driveway for sale and
allow unclean hands to
molest it and cart it off for
use in dark purposes? Or
will you tearfully cling to it,
as it and the other memories
you simply can't part with
drag you under the waters
of doom.
These partings represent a
grieving process that merits
months to pass through, a
transition where you should
rightfully be accompanied
by a therapist, a life coach
and Siddhartha. But being
the kind of guy who
accumulated
your mighty mass of
junk through
procrastination and the
postponement of any
such partings, you have,
naturally, avoided this
shedding of previous
life-skin until the last
minute.
And now, brother, you are
up against it big time.
Wistfully, you muse that,
if you had unlimited funds,
you could hire some
stevedores to cart all your
possessions to storage. You
could then pay monthly for
the rest of your life for the
luxury of hanging onto stuff
you will never look at. But at
least you wouldn't have to
see your past life sold off,
like Scrooge did when he
watched the rag pickers of
his "future."
Of course, if you had
unlimited funds, you
wouldn't be in this position
in the first place, my soonto-be on the streets amigo.
Take each keepsake, each
memory, to your breast, utter
a thanks for its being a part
of your life, kiss it goodbye
if you must, and then let your
hard line garage sale
coordinator (oh, you simply
must have one of these) rip it
from your quivering fingers
and hand it over to some
sketchy-looking woman for a
dollar. Not $100, which
would be
respectful of the object's
original value or meaning to
you, not $25, not even $5 you must give it up for a buck
or find yourself still
possessing it at the end of the
day, and having to lug it to
Goodwill and hand it off for
free. Your customers will
know this, and they will also
know the sale value of each
item goes down as the day
grows longer and your
patience shorter.
So get cold, get bold and
get "clean." Dump, sell, give
away or recycle all of those
things that make you dance
like a marionette when they
tug at your heartstrings.
Remember that possessions
possess. Make the hard
Sophie's Choice for each and
every item that you can't eat
or cover your backside with.
Clean it all out, move
somewhere small and cheap
and start saving up. Soon you
can begin to buy more junk.
It's good for your spirit, it's
good for your soul and it's
good for the economy.
Next installment: Achieving
nirvana through Goodwill and
the dumpster.
Jim Walker's painful
spiritual transformations
should, in no way, reflect on
The Signal. However, he can
be reached there at
jwalker@the-signal.com.
