Stuff. My life is stuffed with it. Hell, some of my stuff is
stuffed with the stuff. It’s a constant problem for anyone attached to things.
Things have a way of generating stuff that relates to the
things your life is stuffed with. If you have a passion for history or
machinery, God help you. It’s the stuff insanity is made of.
Insanity was famously said to be, “doing the same thing over
and over and expecting a different result.” Being passionate about old things, each
time I bring some new stuff home I expect it to go differently. “This time
the project will get done,” I think, and Ginger loses her stuffing. “What the
hell do you plan to do with that thing?”
You see there’s some sort of physical law associated with stuff,
or was it things? But then again, how would I know? I’m insane. The results
prove it.
Realizing my handicap, some time ago I decided to remove the
things stuffing my life. Those I could sell for enough money to stuff a mattress
would be sold. Those that reminded me of friends would get stuffed into boxes
and sent to them so that they could deal with the thing. And those that were
worthless would be offered to anyone whose wife was not yet fed up with stuff
lying on their things. It was a great plan.
An idea born of genius often puts a new kick in the step of
its creator. That’s what happened to me. Suddenly, all this stuff was exciting again.
The things nagging my conscience became the stuff dreams are made of. The image
of friends excitedly opening boxes and placing the thing with the rest of their
stuff brought a smile to my face.
One thing after another was stuffed into my car, driven to
the post office, and shipped away. It was a magical time. People would drop by
the airport for some friendly conversation and before they could swing the prop
I’d say, “Hold on, I have something you might want.” Of course they wanted it.
There was no “might” to it. They were aviators. Much like their cousins, Crows,
they liked shiny things and couldn’t fight the instinctual urge to stuff their
home with another jewel.
Away they’d fly with a thing I felt perfect for them. Inside
our house each newly unencumbered shelf represented a friendship strengthened. The
selfless act of stuffing other peoples homes, with things that had once stuffed my life, continued to put a new
kick in my step - right up to the day I tripped over something on my step. It was
a box stuffed with things.
Several days later, I was an expert on Crows. As it turns
out, members of the Corvid family like to keep their stuff. In fact, they’ll often
hide their things where they believe the Magpies down the road would be least
likely to look. If they think the Ravens are interested, they’ll put them under
lock and key. My friends, it turns out, are no Rooks.
What then was the reason behind the box? A second inspection revealed a carefully worded hand written note stuffed nicely alongside a well-worn Stearman part. This set my ever-investigative mind to work
recreating the scene.
The gesture had obviously been a big production,
and I knew there was only one reason a man would do such a thing. Writing the
letter, then thoughtfully placing both items into a stuff delivery device,
was one act, of an animated play, produced for his wife who was tired of
his things. That night, he probably ate steak. A few days later, I got tuna.
“Where are you going to put that?” Ginger asked. “With the rest
of my things,” was the obvious answer. “But I thought you were getting rid of
stuff,” she said, smartly, as my mind wandered.
Admittedly, this was nothing new. My mind had occasionally
pondered the notion of living a minimalist lifestyle. Moving from one
city to the next, the door would ring, and I’d say to the movers, “Put it over
there with the rest of the stuff,” pointing to a small singular pedestal upon
which sat a single vase, holding a single orchid, placed perfectly to highlight
the white walls and my lack of a life. Each time that’s when I fall in love
with my things all over again and consider renewing our vows. “I swear to lug
you around for no particular reason and always come back to you at some time in
the future, so help me God.”
Coming out of the daydream, Ginger had already moved on to
another of my cherished deficiencies and all was right in the world. The
briefly bare shelf was again encumbered with stuff, and my plan was falling
apart. Over time, one after another, more stuff came in to replace all the
things I had given away. The stuff wasn’t thinning but my workload was
increasing. It had to stop.
Currently, I am no longer giving things away and am
rethinking my formula. It is my hope, if nothing else, it will be discovered
that these things are the dark matter making our universe expand at an ever-increasing
rate. On the other hand, maybe the universe is expanding to make room for more
things? Yes, I suppose that could be the explanation why there is always room for
more stuff. It could also explain where the things I can never find go. Accelerating
exponentially, eventually they zip away in a flash of light, not to be seen
until they make their way through a wormhole and are found in the neighbor’s
garage.
Whatever the answer may be, my friends and I now
have things with a story - our stuff connecting us the way things always have.
People who can’t let go of yesterday, carrying all these things, into the future, so the people of tomorrow have a reason to build shelves.
Author - Rich Davidson
