Clutter rats and their stuff — when dying comes

© 2017 Peter Free

 

02 July 2017

 

 

Caveat

 

Today, I combine impatience with exasperated intolerance. My Zen strand has snapped.

 

 

I have been double whammied this month

 

First, another military PCS move with (yet-yet again) way too much stuff. And second, disposing of a Clutter Rat relative's estate.

 

I find my usually equanimous self irritated by other people's need to hold onto junk so as to prove that they are safe and immortal. Or whatever other irrepressible impulse (generated by a completely unexamined life) causes this craze for collecting objects — including very heavy pieces of enormous furniture — which are always located downstairs or inconveniently upstairs and usually through a maze of narrow doorways.

 

Clutter Ratness and common sense are like oil and water.

 

 

Clutter Rat predilections wouldn't be so bad . . .

 

. . . if family obligations did not designate me to be one of the more (arthritically) muscular people continually moving these mounds of junk around for the spiritually malingering mammals involved.

 

In both the PSC and estate instances, I have relocated significant portions of these back-breaking accumulations, repeatedly, for almost three decades.

 

 

The clutter rat gene runs in families, I think

 

My advice to minimalist types is, don't marry into one. Which likely means avoiding partnering with almost anyone American. We seem to be unable to distinguish between what is necessary and voluminous excess.

 

 

 If you do hook up to the Clutter Rat Group

 

You will go through life, consciously trailing (a) an unending assortment of obstinately unnecessary belongings and (b) all the psychological dreck they tie one to.

 

The material aspects of these require significant physical effort to corral and ever larger homes to contain. It is a non-ending process of life-wasting endeavor.

 

Except, of course, for the Clutter Rat, who sits motionless, rubbing its addictively acquisitive paws — while interminably denying mortality and Life's unavoidable change.


 

Just yesterday

 

I was mule-carrying heavy boxes of literal junk that contained (among other unpleasantnesses) mouse nests. A condition which constituted a pretty stout indicator as to the uselessness of whatever was inside those fabulously many rotting boxes.

 

Layers of mouse turds everywhere, including two odiferously decaying mouse carcasses.

 

Sin Nombre, I say a lung-filled hello.

 

 

Part of the clutter rat diagnosis is . . .

 

. . .  the inability to throw or give anything (at all and ever) away, until death snatches the Clutter Rat and carts his and her soul to the terminal recycle yard.

 

So now, I'm in the process of a "thrift" sale, moving the same stuff repeatedly to and fro — so that ironically other acquisitive people can meander through and among it, mostly deciding that it is the landfill-destined Mass of Crap that it actually is.

 

Naturally, Clutter Rats insist that numerous clearly meritless items have to be retained (being often of quite noticeable weight and awkward shape) for the nostalgial benefit of the surviving partner or offspring.

 

Thus, the cycle continues ad infinitum, with whomever the Hand of a Humor-Filled God has designated, doing the moving.

 

 

Is there a diagnostic tool that would allow you to run for your Minimalist Life — before you are shackled to one of these folk?

 

It would help to meet the Extended Family beforehand, preferably with the assistance of an observant psychiatrist. However, the military life (and youth itself) do not always allow this.

 

Today, a predictive shortcut occurred to me, while I was moving "decorative" pillows on the guest bed we're in. Last night, these had journeyed to another room, so that we could use the bed. This morning, they traveled back, so that we could occupy the other room.

 

The pillows serve no purpose except to weaken wallets, occupy space, collect dust and encourage allergic reaction — as well as to drain the vital energy necessary to "dispense" their deceptively annoying selves out of the way.

 

If you meet someone who owns decorative bed pillows, flee.

 

Following this Wise Elder tip will save you a lifetime of volcanic irritation.

 

 

The moral? — Love does not conquer all

 

Repetitive stupidity does.

 

If you are going to cling, cling to a minimalist.  God is so much easier to see that way.