I fear
that for me all will end with neither a bang nor a whimper but with a somber yard
sale.
Everything
must go!
If the
day comes when they haul me off to the Happy Haven nursing home, I’ll have to
leave 99.9 percent of my shit behind.
Austerity!
It will
be a painful triage. Forget about my music collection of roughly 300 cds. No
room for that at Happy Haven. Pick four or five “deserted island” cds, or in
this case “nursing home” cds.
And all
my rows and piles of books, too. Liquidate! Pick four or five.
The
same goes for clothes. How many shirts will fit in my one lone personal closet
and/or nightstand at Happy Haven? Six? How many pants?
Furniture?
No need or room for that anymore. Dump it all! Dump all those kitchen gadgets, too.
I
suppose it’ll be a whole lot less traumatic if I can convince myself to embrace
austerity. Austerity, they say, is good for the soul. Buddha says suffering is
caused by attachment. I could welcome my banishment to Happy Haven as an
opportunity to experience the joy of unencumbered purity, like the Buddha.
I could
learn to see my abrupt, involuntary downsizing as my big chance to live like
Jesus. Jesus didn’t own a damn thing except his sandals and gown. But the
problem is, millions of people have tried to live just like Jesus and the only one
who has succeeded is Jesus. That’s because there’s a key difference between
Jesus and everybody else: Jesus knew magic. Jesus could make sculptures out of
lightning if he took a notion. He could catch a lightning bolt in his bare hand
and twist it into the shape of a poodle or a giraffe or anything he damn well
pleased.
It’s a
helluva lot easier to renounce all worldly possessions when you know magic. If
Jesus had a big craving for something like a beef sandwich, all he had to do
was conjure one up. Either that or any of his thousands of acolytes would have
been more than honored to go fetch one for him. We’re all taught that Jesus used
magic only for the public good and never for personal gratification, just like
on Bewitched. But I don’t really believe that, do you?
In the
mortal world, austerity is like apple picking. It’s okay and maybe even
beneficial if it’s voluntary. A favorite autumn day trip for urbanites is to
drive to a distant orchard and pay to pick apples. It’s a relaxing escape. But
if you’re the guy who has to pick those apples all damn day every damn day for
a buck a bushel, it ain’t much fun.
I’m
still full of denial. I’m not ready to accept the inevitability of a final,
irrevocable yard sale. So if the day comes when the grim Happy Haven reaper
kicks down my door, I’ll rent a storage locker.
