Of material things that took up space and pseudo friends who wasted time.
I was never one to allow distractions and drama. Nineties kids, we have reached an age where explanations are unnecessary. A few years ago, I sharpened the guillotine severing a 20+ year friendship with someone who despite being wrong on all accounts, could not see past their ego and stupidity. I’d like to think that I give people ample opportunities to either straighten out or ship out; yet, I am also well aware that time is not a renewable resource. Perhaps, I should start sending out invoices. Terms: 30 Days.
Spring cleaning came early this year. My travels last year brought me serenity and served as inspiration to fully commit to minimalism. Using a pomodoro timer, I diligently went through clothes, jewelry, and shoes making a decision within 3 seconds to curb reminiscences. Six boxes and three garbage bags later, I am certain I just shifted chaos from one room to another. Full circle. My father a simple man with simple tastes, here I am removing the excess and feeling guilty for being wasteful. His life lessons sprout up unexpectedly from time to time and bite me square in the ass like a Nintendo piranha plant.
Lately, simplicity sparks joy. My world is gracefully going monochromatic with hints of Marseillaise flair. I have deliberately erected an obstacle course of a schedule whose sole mission is to filter vacuity and other rubbish. My weary body does not have time for do-nothing bitches, virtual social workers, and the parade of juvenile bric-a-brac that adorns disposition. Real estate on my contacts list is going fast and I have no plans for expansion. Instead, I want to nourish the connections I truly value. Specifically reserved for the group of special human beings who can articulate their thoughts succinctly, practice patience and understanding as opposed to cheating me out of an opportunity for discourse by frantically dialing at the witching hour. Priority and status are on a first come, first served basis after my nucleus. Had I l grasped that concept 10 years ago, I might be telling you a lighthearted anecdote instead.
Sitting on a bench located outside the porch of my parents’ home in Stockton, I had some moments to myself before heading to the backyard where I looked at the dying harvest. Champagne grapes clinging for dear life on the trellis, fading and wilted by the same orb that once gave them life. Looking towards the rest of the color-faded garden, I imagine what the outcome might have been had my father been tending to it. I felt my eyes well up with tears and before I broke my silence I took a picture. I had the same look on my face when the band was serenading my father during the procession. I often reflect on that moment last September, seeking answers to questions that were never asked and finding meaning in emptiness. Each day I wake up with a handful of clarity. I speak highly of the dead, its a way to keep them alive. Similarly, I speak of the living, as if they were a distant memory. Nostalgia is tragic.