Chuck out the trash
The time has come to chuck out the trash. It’s like a heart transplant. Bad stuff out — good stuff in. The trouble has always been what to keep.
I remember seeing Oprah’s show on decluttering when she got someone to go to their cupboard and take out everything that hadn’t been touched for two years. It’s not a husband’s business I thought, to take the family’s possessions apart then put them back together again, but as a skeleton.
Apparently men are worse hoarders than women.
The problem is that men keep old newspapers, magazines and tattered underwear. And manuals for appliances that broke down years ago. Someone put up a Facebook post that said a sign of creeping old age is deciding to hang onto a really good, empty box. Time is a monster under the bed.
I enjoy making sculptures that tease out the idea of passing fancies as life’s permanent residents. Like toys that are cast in bronze, that appear playful while forever defying their transient playfulness.
One day little Johnnie will have to give away his toy Ferrari, to the poor kids whose moms rifle through stuff at the charity shop.
I’m on a cloud watching the minutes tick by, wondering what to do with my expired multivitamins.