Rob Azevedo decides there was entirely too much clutter in his life in 2013 and wants to welcome 2014 with a clean and open slate.
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It’s taken me exactly 364.25 days to finally decide to sweep the floors of my clutter shop of life. It’s been a messy 2013, that’s for sure. No shortage of raw emotion — both good and bad — were harvested alongside proud moments, some resentments and the bitter sweet taste of victory.
Hmm, where to start? I suppose right here in this sweaty three layer mess of workout clothes I sit in. My frugality as a Yankee insists upon me re-wearing my workout gear for a reasonable sum of days. Figuring I won’t be attending a White House correspondents dinner between now and the next night, I always say, “Why burn up the usage clock on a favorite tee shirt when you can wear it out naturally instead of killing it with that bloody spin cycle?”
But no more. Off these clothes go, into the wash. Just one second while I get birth naked…Whoa! Chilly down here in this icebox of a workshop I write in. Nips up! Which brings me to my next pile of decision making: my workspace.
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Oh, an utter den of filth, this frozen work zone of mine stationed in the basement of my home. Far away from any talk of cupcakes, shopping lists, sign up sheets and biting cats, my workspace, sadly, has lost its Mojo. Gone are the days where inspiration was found in the loveless hole of solitude. I miss listening to anyone but myself. I miss the small talk, the ying and yang of the Gray Zone. So, up the stairs I’ll climb, laptop in hand, eager to capture that burning rod of creativity within the confines of Candyland.
Kind of quiet up here. May as well sweep up my third pile of wreckage from 2013 and call my buddy Louie. It took breaking Louie’s leg in two places to help me realize I need to take more stock in Friendship. The Good Ship Lollipop is running low on sailors these days. Plenty of pirates, just not enough of the old ruddermen left. No more assaulting the remaining crew of musketeers, I say. Our wrestling days are over. It’s all about the fish dinners for Lou and me in 2014.
(btw: Louie didn’t answer.)
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And speaking of fishing, why not? Come spring, instead of hustling down to the pub on a Friday night, why not spin some flies at home watching Duck Dynasty? Join a co-ed softball league? Sleep in full? Time to dial it back a bit and start chipping away at the lining of my arteries as if they were the dirty tiled walls of the Callahan Tunnel. Finish date, March 2014.
Speaking of tunnels, round four of my yearly cleansing focuses on widening, not just my arteries, but my mindset toward nature, my perception of Man, my overall expectations when it comes to work and commerce.
Anchored at times by an inadequate outlook, I vow to no longer view the sky as burning black. When cold I’ll speak only of heat. When sad I’ll sing hard and loud. When anxious I‘ll…well, I’ll still do that, but in 2014, I’ll practice with better reason.
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Which bleeds into the fifth act of this proposed renovation of mind, body and spirit.
Washing.
I often times forget to wash my feet. Unlike my workout gear, I hold no allegiance to my feet. Loath them as I do guacamole, fakes and lying mechanics, my feet are the step child to my body, fed only the scraps of a hot shower. While my pits and fanny are spoiled with bars of suds and body washes, I show no kindness to those vile, organ horned blanket grabbing filthy things! Till today.
And in order to reinvent myself in the New Year, acceptance will have to play a vital role in the resurfacing of my being. A toe to face conversation is set to take place early in the year. As is a sit down with some undetermined higher power, something bigger than the words of Ray Wylie Hubbard, John Steinbeck, Lucinda Williams and James Baldwin.
Act Six: Losing my religion. No! Finding my religion! Drifting along on the prose of men born centuries ago, I can no longer look to just Man as my beam of inspiration. Somewhere beyond the stars, far off in a spirit world unknown, is an uncovered entity just waiting for my full attention, something less dogged by doubt and fear, something meaning more than wearing a braided wrist band. Embrace me, I cry. Bring me tight to your breast ye Holy One, let your spirit bleed all over me.
Now my floor is swept clean of 2013. Happy New Year to All.
And can I borrow someone’s foot loofah?
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Photo: dongor / flickr