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feces for the ages
Wednesday, May 29 2002 setting: five miles south of Staunton, VirginiaWhile my mother was enjoying the new computer this morning, I found myself waging something of an anti-clutter jihad in the Shaque. I dug into the layers of magazines and long-forgotten odds and ends beneath the makeshift central table, throwing away pieces of my past that I might have otherwise been tempted to preserve. My life over the past four years, what with all the transcontinental moving and dramatic changes of living situations, has taught me how to let go of things. As I surveyed the ancient magazines, I knew I would never being looking at them again. I'm talking about copies of Byte Magazine from 1984 and old dog-eared TTL pinout manuals. I did preserve a few things I found in the chaos, including some interesting optical equipment I dumpster dived from the University of Virginia some years ago. Unlike technology affected by the relentless pressure of Moore's Law, vintage optical equipment will always be useful.
By the time I was done, I'd hollowed out a space big enough for two caster-wheeled plastic shelving sets. There's already one such shelf set in the Shaque (it's filled with my mother's art supplies), and it was to get this out of the way that provided the initial impetus for today's anti-clutter jihad.
In contrast to myself, my parents appear to have completely lost their ability to let go of things. They haven't had to move anywhere since 1976 and have, it seems, gradually come to view the landscape and things around them as extensions of themselves: as inviolate and inalienable as their arms and legs. As a kid growing up in their unchanging world I remember how it was to think this way. But now a chasm has opened up with regard to our respective view of things. The circumstances of my life has caused me to diverge from my ancestral philosophy. As always, I have tried to bring home the pearls of wisdom I've gleaned from my experiences the world. Usually my parents are receptive: these days they eat tempeh, grind coffee, and drink microbrew, for example. But when it comes to combating clutter, our divergence of opinion is too radical for them (particularly Hoagie) to reconcile.I realized during this visit that I haven't used the toilet in my parents' house for years, not during my visits, not even when I've lived there. Peeing outside goes without saying, but I don't even like to use that bathroom when it comes time to do a number two. For one thing, every time you go to flush that thing you're taking a substantial risk that things will simply swirl around in a circle and go nowhere. Such situations require extreme measures, namely the use of an auxiliary bucket of water. Since this water cannot be precious cistern water, getting the bucket requires a trip out to the backyard faucet (which runs stream water). What's more, using that bathroom is anything but a private experience. The only thing standing between you and the kitchen is a flimsy little door, a door that can be flung open at any moment by my brother Don. When nature calls, it doesn't seem to matter much to him whether or not someone is already seated on the throne.
So when I'm visiting my parents and nature calls out to me, I always find a way to do my business somewhere in the big outdoors. My preferred method is rather involved, but it's in keeping with my treasure-burying inclinations. I like to go across the road to the site of "the Temple" and then, with a post hole digger, dig a hole eighteen inches or so down into the subsoil. Into this hole I deposit a little package of nutritious entropy for the ages. Lately (and for no firmly-decided reason) I've been planting dead sticks in the holes as I fill them back in. It might seem weird, but it's a form of ritual, and there's something about the human spirit that gravitates towards ritual. I might be reductionistic and excessively scientific in my world view, but this ritual is in perfect keeping with my sensibilities. I like it because it's thoroughly private, there's no room for error, and it provides a little something to help my favorite trees grow.Tonight Hoagie cooked a dinner based around fish and shrimp, partly as an expression of gratitude for the work I'd done on her computer. I think this was the first time I'd ever known her to prepare shrimp. My Dad grumbled a little about it, because he has some environmental reason for not eating shrimp, but then I saw he was eating the shrimp anyway. 
Fred the Dog. He's still looking good from his shampoo a week or so ago.
The goat "Snowflake" is the last living goat of the herd. Being a herd animal, she
communes with whatever animals she can find, in this case the chickens.
The farmyard.
Inside the Shaque: my mother's new computer and some of her "For Dummies" references.
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