Getting Organized
I spent a couple hours this morning moving stuff around, throwing junk out, and in general, putting things back in the places I think they belong.
Every so often, I wake up with this desperate need to get organized; I look around my house and feel like the clutter is closing in, so I somewhat frantically start chucking and winnowing and filing in what is ultimately a rather vain attempt to put the things I own back into some semblance of order.
I’m not sure why this happens, really; I just know I feel a better when the books and papers on my desk are stacked from the largest on the bottom to the smallest on the top—and I feel even better when there aren’t any stacks at all.
I have an inkling that I’m motivated in part by the fear that I will end up one of those crazy old people who lives in a house with so much junk that you can’t even navigate the hallways. I had a customer on my paper route whose apartment was like that; there were newspapers and magazines piled to the ceiling everywhere; I had to walk from his front door to the kitchen one time when I was collecting; what really creeped me out was the way the stacks of stuff rose up and hovered over me like stalagmites in a dark cave.
I also think that I’m responding to some sense of internal disorganization. When my external space is messy, it’s too much a mirror of my internal space. I harbor the belief that if I can just organize my desk, then I can thereby organize my mind.
This, of course, is sloppy thinking exemplified. I’m sure that many of the world’s finest thinkers have messy offices, and I’ll bet that President Bush’s desk is as empty of clutter as his mind.
Moreover, I cleaned my desk before I wrote this and does it really show?
Every so often, I wake up with this desperate need to get organized; I look around my house and feel like the clutter is closing in, so I somewhat frantically start chucking and winnowing and filing in what is ultimately a rather vain attempt to put the things I own back into some semblance of order.
I’m not sure why this happens, really; I just know I feel a better when the books and papers on my desk are stacked from the largest on the bottom to the smallest on the top—and I feel even better when there aren’t any stacks at all.
I have an inkling that I’m motivated in part by the fear that I will end up one of those crazy old people who lives in a house with so much junk that you can’t even navigate the hallways. I had a customer on my paper route whose apartment was like that; there were newspapers and magazines piled to the ceiling everywhere; I had to walk from his front door to the kitchen one time when I was collecting; what really creeped me out was the way the stacks of stuff rose up and hovered over me like stalagmites in a dark cave.
I also think that I’m responding to some sense of internal disorganization. When my external space is messy, it’s too much a mirror of my internal space. I harbor the belief that if I can just organize my desk, then I can thereby organize my mind.
This, of course, is sloppy thinking exemplified. I’m sure that many of the world’s finest thinkers have messy offices, and I’ll bet that President Bush’s desk is as empty of clutter as his mind.
Moreover, I cleaned my desk before I wrote this and does it really show?
posted by Professor Dave at 12:26 PM
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