Punch Holes So It Can Breathe

1. Imagine all of your stuff in one room; it can be a big room. We all have a lot of stuff.

2. Imagine that all this stuff represents your relative success as measured by society, consciously and unconsciously.

3. Do a little tap dance or jig that you’re not starving in the gutter of post-apocalyptic Phoenix (yet).

4. Realize, bear with me now, that all this stuff is temporal dust. It will break down, disintegrate, and dissolve into meaningless particles that someone else will inhale, then spit onto the sidewalk, or whatever improved walking surface people have dreamed up by that time.

5. Realize that all of this stuff is meaningless. If you packed it away, how much of it would you really need? It’s certainly not meaningful to anyone else.

6. Empty your house/apartment/living quarters. Put all your possessions, minus one shoebox of stuff (more on this later) onto the front lawn, the bright green one that sucks up all that perfectly good water. Burn it. (If the house catches, that saves you an extra, albeit optional step.)

7. With a sturdy set of shoes, pants, and a couple of shirts (separated out already - don’t purge and burn in the nude - the author is not responsible for injuries), start walking. Carry your shoebox under your left arm like a football.

8. When the sun begins to set, look for a place to sleep. A tent or blanket may be reserved for this activity, but only if they retain a spartan character. Tent mansions with multiple rooms must be part of the warm up fire.

9. Place your shoebox near your head so you can look at it. This is your new measure of success. Medieval monks kept human skulls in their cells. This is your new reminder.

10. When the sun has bleached your bones, think back on the warmth of your success fire, how it danced. Your own sun. Your own ashes. 

from "dig it" [Arson Press, 2018] 

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