(I miss George. His stuff seems a little dated these days, but some of it is intensely relevant. See an important correction to an earlier rant below, following this contemplate of clutter.)

George Carlin, or at least his shade, is with me as the gray light comes up at Refuge Farm. His ghost is a good fit for my mood as I do a load of laundry and contemplate a truncated day of rest.

Carlin’s intelligence and skill have not aged particularly well, since the great battles about freedom of speech and wars in Asia have been concluded, and his foes have fled the field. We are a cruder and less informed society now, despite the explosion of communications.

But Carlin’s classic rant about “stuff,” still resonates with an almost Shakespearean blank-verse rhythm in its wordplay.

In fact, some of the “Stuff” that is piled around me includes the complete works of the Bard, on the off-chance that I will need a great quote in a post-attack, no-Internet world. Which would you rather have? A great quote or plenty of ammunition?

Ideally both. But that just feeds the need for Stuff.

“That’s all your house is,” Carlin reflected about the consumer society, “a place to keep your stuff while you go out and get more stuff.”

“Stuff” is synonymous with one of his Seven Words you can’t say on the radio, and I will use another euphemism this morning as the light is coming up at Refuge Farm. “Clutter.”

By that I mean crap that is potentially more valuable than the momentary feeling of liberation that comes from pitching it. I have not factored in the gas and personal energy to actually move the stuff. I don’t know. More analysis is needed, or maybe I should just acknowledge that Carlin was right and have a bonfire.

The solar-powered lights are winking out around the white pea-gravel of the Garden of Whatever, and the mercury vapor security light is making up its mind about whether night has really gone.

The coffee is good, but I am looking at clutter and the glowing digits on the microwave’s clock. Red Team at noon, and I am going to have to be prepared with the computer linked to a SharePoint site before that, so departure not later than 1000. Crap.

If I did not love it down on the farm as much as I do, I would have just surrendered and stayed in Arlington to catch up on sleep.

But there was something else. The young and aggressively cheery Realtor was as tactful as possible. He assured me that the wreckage and debris of a career and an obsessive compulsion for eclectic collecting was quite fascinating, but possibly…maybe…would not appeal to all those seeking a two-bedroom two-bath condo in Arlington for under…well, some improbable number of bucks.

I perked up immediately as he bounded the market potential. I had assumed the only way I was leaving the crushing losses at Big Pink from the puncture of the housing bubble was feet first. So, it was sort of bizarre that I should applaud the inflation of yet another bubble by the fools downtown. But, where you stand is where you sit, and after the first conference call of a Saturday I started throwing clutter into my cart to roll down to the Panzer and transfer the mess from one place to another.

(People tell me these are good books. I intend to find out sometime.)

I won’t enumerate the nature of the crap. Books, mostly, good ones acquired through recommendations from alert readers. The ones on top are pristine, for the most part, unopened and the ideas still fresh and contained within the covers. The old friends of literature are still behind pictures- those have to go, for sure- but they too are just clutter.

As I was stacking books on every available surface I realized that I had a whole new library on my iPad, and the only hard copy thing I really have any use for is the Culpeper Clarion-Bugle.

I had both on the deck when the stuff was out of the Panzer and the sun was lowering and it was time to just chill, and watch to see what critters would come out to feed on the pastures.

I missed a brew-fest downtown, the thing ending just as I came across the article. Rosmarie’s barn just up the road is starting the Spring-Summer cycle of equestrian events Sunday morning, and continuing the last Sunday of the summer months. That critical knowledge will permit me to get a cheap horse fix, and be ready for those intense people in giant trucks towing horse trailers down the country road and across the end of my gravel road.

County taxes are going up. The Teachers say it is “for the kids.” The volunteer firemen say it is “for the fire engine.”

Really, the information in the Clarion-Bugle is the only crap I need. Everything else is just… well, you know.

(Beats me. The bronze gecko came from somewhere, and the two gaping toads with the red-glass eyes must be important, like the gold damask doily on which they now sit ominously. Photo Socotra.)

Copyright 2013 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com

Errata:

In a piece riddled with distraction earlier this week, The Daily implied that the Islamic Republic of Iran was supporting the brutal dictatorship of Bashar al-Assad in Syria. Alert Reader Sid (not Sid Vicious, this Sid is quite nice) pointed out that the hard line opposition to the Assad regime has been led since its inception by “Syria’s Sunni Muslim majority, mostly in conservative, marginalized areas of a diverse and ancient land.” The descent into brutal civil war has hardened sectarian differences, and the failure of more mainstream rebel groups to secure regular arms supplies has allowed Islamists to fill the void and win supporters.

Thus, the paramilitary Iranian al Quds force and the resources of Shi’a power are flowing to the government, rather than the rebels, who are a proxy for the Sunni fundamentalists supported by our good friends from the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia.

To clarify, the Daily staff holds the Wahabbis, Salifists and Deboandis in particular contempt, along with the Twelfth Imam faction of the Iranian flagship brand of extremist Shi’a Islam. This is by no means a comprehensive list of vicious extremists we don’t like, since there are also radicalized young men who consider detonating bombs in American cities a vital part of their spiritual journey, but also like hip-hop, American community colleges and beating up their wives.

There are no apparent good options for American policymakers, and if The Daily implied otherwise, we deeply regret it. Our thanks to Sid for pointing out the inconsistency and keeping us honest.

– The Daily Staff