People that live in clean white washed homes perplex me. How does one maintain order and cleanliness? I do not collect anything. I make a habit of only keeping special things--photographs, writing, artwork, all of which can now be stored digitally. I have a meager wardrobe, there is no food in the house, no treasures stored here on earth with my name on them. Minimalism is what I am striving fore. Coffee pot? Who needs one? I brew cowboy coffee. A set of matching dishes? Just more to wash in the end. So why is this apartment such a mess? It will not stay clean. I clean it every week and by the middle of the week it is a mess again. Not so messy that Maury Polvich is going to show up with a camera crew to document and broadcast my squalor to countless fat house wives across America--but unclean enough to make me anxious.
Peoples insides have a way of finding the external world...To be seen by the rest of us. Our insides are leaking out of every pore of our body, collecting in pools to be gawked at by all. Art work. I wonder what does my apartment say about me? Is my mind a mess? The architecture of my synapses mirrored by the architecture of my methods of organization, speech, worship? My apartment is a work of art that can not be contained or directed. It has a will of its own. In many ways my apartment is more alive than I am.
sentiance is not unique to my apartment by any means. The roads, the buildings, the lights, the shape of water fountains, the oil spot in the jack in the box drive through window: All works of art; humanities insides molding the outside. We spill oil in the ocean--we lubricate our minds in alcohol and processed food. Love and happiness reflected in our neighbor hood parks, our cement slabs by the bay. What does the skeletal remains of last nights chicken dinner laying on my computer desk say about the human condition?
Boy I really need to clean this dump up.
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