Marie Kondo vs My Clutter

The tenets of "Marie Kondo-ing" your home are simple: Hold every item you own. If it sparks joy, keep it. If not, get rid of it.

LATimes  @jessica_roy

I've always thought Americans were good at showing gumption

when it comes to hoarding and conspicuous consumption.

Even as a toddler I had some strong obsessions

with collecting bric-a-brac as valuable possessions.

I kept a box of gewgaws in my bedroom as a boy;

baseball cards and rusty keys that gave me scads of joy.

Nickels from Ontario; a mainspring from a clock;

a piece of yellow sulfur; and a broken Stanley lock.

In MY mind it was treasure, worth the ransom of a king.

With passionate delusion to this trash I had to cling.

And when my mother got fed up and threw it all away,

I started leaking brine and felt to moan: "Alack-a-day!"

After that I vowed that whatsoever came to me

should never be subjected to hygienic scrutiny.

Whatever I had bought, or found, or gotten as a gift,

was guarded with a zealous eye that did not ever drift.

And so I came to manhood, with a closet full of dreck

that grew and grew like Topsy, without hinder, without let.

Croquet sets and lawn darts, with a smattering of tools;

lava lamps and Christmas lights -- a pair of leather mules.

A road atlas of Texas; Coleman lanterns and some rope;

a Swiffer without handle and a bar of laundry soap;

Hires root beer extract and a Shriner's soft red fez;

a Michael Jordan poster and a dozen empty PEZ.

To inventory all of it would take a hundred years,

and still you would not get to the remotes and rabbit ears.

The printers and cassette tapes and the cables color-coded;

the battery rechargers and the bath oil beads (exploded.)

Now my garage is filling up with trinkets and cheap trifles,

including self-help books and half a dozen BB rifles.

I have to park the car out on the curb come rain or glare;

and where to put the StairMaster is causing me despair.

Even Marie Kondo could not break up my logjam.

It's part of me just like the shell is part of any clam.

I think I'll shave my head and join a Buddhist monastery;

all my worldly chattels they can take to sell or bury . . . 

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