Death, rebirth, and an estate sale.

I want to sell all my crap in a giant Estate sale inside my home in preparation for homelessness.  I know that I am consciously trying to turn this into some vast buddhist experience and I acccept that.  We've all got to have goals.

I think I will spend all my time turning my home into the catalogue of my dreams, with big carefully written price tags that seem a bit old fashioned.  I think I will fill two suitcases (and a small storage space) with everything I want to keep.  I keep thinking of evolution, survival of the fittest, except it's a hard and fast attempt.  It's like a crash cource in tangible enlightenment.  Darwin announces from heaven, "Here, this is how you have to live to be alright in the universe."

That reminds me of the time I mentioned the Galapagos Islands at a table of priests and no one knew where I was talking about.  But I digress.

I have a vague idea it's all ridiculous.  My therapist thinks half of it is genius and half of it is reckless.  Many acquaintances have no conception of it, like I'm out in the ether.  For other friends it seems entirely natural, the shedding of all that materialist baggage and living as cheaply as possible.  I think the one piece of the equation not entirely evident to the rest of the world is necessity.  The simple logistic problem by having too much stuff and no place to live.  Couch surfing, though plausible, does not bode well for a person with too much stuff.  I've always been a lot of earth and fire, and maybe even a little flow like water, but I think it's time to be light like air.  Swift like wind.  I mean, it seems like the universe could not insist more adamantly than it is now.  It will not let me keep anything.  It pulls from my grasp everything I hold onto.  And so this whole, let it go, well it seems like the thing to do.  Let it go.  I know what I need to do.  I know all these therapists and guided mediation tapes can't be wrong.  Let it go.

So like the entrepeneur I always wanted to be, I'll perfect every aesthetic I've been striving for and then put it all out there.  Manifest incarnate the glossy spreads I gorge on daily.  Use this digital realm to increase all odds of success, cater a private opening like a gallery night, and oh that reminds me.  Gallery night.  Sparrow Gallery.  May.  I guess this will be my project, finally manifesting the surrealist portraiture in the form nearest and dearest to its inspiration: advertising.

I have a very good photographer "by the balls" as we speak, and a literal plethora of beautiful people waiting to be models.  I will bring down to the detail every marriage possible between practical and pure fucking art.

Forgive my language.

It's a fucking snake pit.  It's a bad tangle of electrical cords behind your TV.  It's a rat's nest.  It's a mess.  Psycho-social-bio, they say, all in one.  And then there's housekeeping.  It's all a big mess, and I haven't got a lot to lose, so I'm gambling I can turn ash to clay and clay into pure absolute genius.  Pretty genius that sells, piece by piece, like that guy who made e-bay famous.  Like when old ladies die and their estranged sons and daughters open their front doors and let crowds of strangers root through their jewelry boxes, their basements, their kitchen drawers.  Death and rebirth.  Estate sale.  It all makes sense to me.