I’m
immersed in “The Martian”, a popular new book by Andy Weir. Its cheerful protagonist Mark is stranded on
Mars, and (spoiler alert!) his home there – “the Hab” – has just been ripped
apart by an air pressure vulnerability in the aging Hab canvas. No worries, Mark goes about fixing the whole
thing (although I’m not yet sure how he is going to manage this). Mark is so careful, so patient, so clever. He has to be, because he needs to live
another four years until the next Mars mission arrives to rescue him.
Anyway,
Mark’s admirable attention to his environment made me think about my own hab,
and its continual disarray. I woke up
today determined to make a dent. Mark –
I need you!
I’m
not sure how one woman can possibly generate this much chaos, but I find myself
in a continual struggle with entropy.
First there is my study, which is the repository of books, journals,
magazines, mail, newspaper and journal clippings, gestational writing projects,
financial stuff, old photos, along with pencil sharpener, computer, and printer. Any visitor to my house would be prepared for
the clutter of my study because it is approached from the runway of my upstairs
hall, which itself is presently a tunnel lined with stacked boxes of old files and
books from lab.
Then
there is the kitchen, which, although it is actually used for cooking, now mainly
serves as my art studio. Its island is strewn
with paints, brushes, pencils, wire, wire-cutters, glue, tape, thumb tacks, paper, art
books and magazines and its big round table is covered in thick brown paper forming
a work area with cutting mat, exacto knives, cardboard, and Elmer’s glue. The kitchen floor offers its own little
archeological dig, as it is littered with a week’s worth of shoes (this is a
bad habit I have had since childhood). The
window bench is home to a pile of music textbooks and vocal scores, the latter
of which are strategically placed in sight of the back door so I won’t forget
them on the way to rehearsal. This batch
of notes has a counterpart a few feet away in the dining room, where books,
sheets, and Xeroxes of vocal music lie in piles on the sideboard and
piano.
Finally,
there is my bedroom, which is truly scary, and really I am completely mystified
as to how it can be in such a steady state of instability. I make my bed every morning and dirty clothes
do make it into the hamper. My closet is
the essence of order as I have arranged it in a hierarchy of color (pretty simple
as I generally wear only black, white, and grey) followed by garment type. Yet there seem to be a lot of clean clothes
everywhere – fresh from the laundry waiting for me to put them away, things
pulled out to wear but then rejected, or clothing that never quite made it back
to its storage station after a night at the ballet. Ditto for jewelry. And of course, there is the landmine of shoes near
the foot of the bed balancing the half-finished crossword puzzles, pens, and
half-read books that accumulate near the pillows.
And
then it hit me: since I’ve retired, I’ve become multidimensional! When I was still working, I had a job, and before that a job and a child (who certainly spawned her own clutter, but that was
largely kept to her own bedroom and my bathroom). I didn’t sing, I wasn’t taking art classes
that somehow involved every medium known to man, and my tickets to musical
events were limited to one every few weeks.
Now I’m singing in two groups, tackling a new art project every other
week, and taking in every ballet and vocal event San Francisco has to
offer. And hey, there is no one else
living here to irritate and no one who needs an organizational role model. But in truth, I crave order and serenity, and every now and then I need to rein in this explosion.
So
this morning I steeled myself, like Mark on Mars, and said this is the day to
get organized. So far, the kitchen has been
“neatified” and my desk top looks better.
But, let’s put it this way: If I discovered myself stranded on Mars, I’d
just pack it in.
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