the necessity of storms

an old essay i sat on for a couple of weeks... took me some time to polish, but here it is... #################################

saturday morning dawned cold, wet, and windy. evening had been terrible. the storm signal no. 2 winds drove the rain to seep through the windows, drenching half my bed. the whole night my blanket and my pillows were all giving me moist reminders of my misery as the wind howled outside. some water had even engulfed part of the floor of my room, and i had to enlist the help of all the rags and old, torn t-shirts i could muster to stem the deluge. but at least, this morning, frank's worst had already passed us.

but then frank had not yet totally left. it was still too rainy and windy to make any trip outside comfortable. and my room, already a mess before frank came roaring, was now a disaster area. books stacked higgledy-piggledy to avoid getting wet, scattered stacks of yesterday's news, various pieces of plastic that used to hold old purchases, random papers and magazines. piled on my little table were receipts of long ago transactions, old electricity and credit card bills, empty deodorant and rubbing alcohol bottles, more pieces of plastic, expired mcdonald's coupons; in short, the beginnings of a mountain of garbage. to top it all off, soaked rags all over the floor, the curtains dripping wet, and on the corner of our roof, a loose iron sheet moaning its fragility.

and not just the state of my room, but also the state of my head; the rain had not just seeped through the windows to drench my bed, my pillows, my blanket, and my floor, it also flooded my brain, soaking my bones, drowning my lungs with helplessness. there i was reduced to a distraught shivering wreck, desperate to escape the disaster of my room, yet too scared to face what remained of frank outside. something had to be done: defy nature to escape my more immediate horrors, or fix my room. the answer was obvious.

as to how i allowed my room to reach this state of desperation, i can't really say. or maybe i'm just too ashamed to admit. this time, driven to the edge of insanity, i was forced to fight back one way or another. since i was no match against nature, it had to be my personal mess that i should confront.

first off, i had to wipe off all the water that had overrun the floor, then take out all the wet rags. my floor now reasonably dry, i turned my attention to the most visible mess: my books. after sorting them into three tidy stacks, it was on to sorting everything else: the magazines and the old newspapers, the old receipts and bills, the little pieces of plastic and trash, each in their own pile.

but sorting revealed a new problem: i had no more space. the contents of my crowded shelves were just groaning with the effects of overpopulation. a revolution was inevitable: i had to throw things out. now came the hard part.

first the old receipts and pieces of plastic, the expired mcdonald's coupons, and the empty plastic bottles, all had to go. these little pieces of trash were the easiest, yet, ultimately inconsequential: i still couldn't create enough space. i had to throw the old newspapers away.

i had to be careful though. some of the issues here had my articles printed on them, and some with memorable essays that i had formed an attachment to. an ardous hour of sorting and checking, separating what to keep from what had to be thrown away, and i was done. my trash can couldn't have been any happier.

i ponder over the contents my trash can, and over the stack of old newspapers. why is it that i hang on to all this trash for so long? why is it so hard to just... let go?

my room finally having achieved a semblance of order, my body sweating, my hands dusty, the tips of my fingernails blackened by the dirt that i scraped off the skin of my arms, and yet oddly, i felt clean: as clean as having taken a thousand baths, as clean as emptying my bowels of all literal and metaphorical shit, as clean as having all my sins forgiven. no wonder they say cleanliness is next to godliness: the act of cleaning up is, in itself, a religious experience.

i sat on my chair (which had also been cleared of its own share of chaos) and surveyed the restored glory of my personal sanctuary, then thought to myself: let frank blow what fury it has left my way, i no longer care. i had my room back. and it took a storm to make me look inside and clean up my own mess.