Refined Skins

Clutter. It is a word that seems to levitate. Clutter, even when used as a noun has motion to it. Few nouns move, much less levitate. Few nouns resonate, heave, and fall back upon themselves like breathe boxed up in our lungs, then pounded out with each steady foot-step. In, out, in, out. Full of longing, full of anticipation.

To live an uncluttered life: one made simple by the lack of artifacts, the material trinkets that mark us up, label us, and expose our consumer whims and insecurities, is an alternative rarely realized. Moreover, an alternative rarely favored by the masses. For we are constantly in motion. A shade of maroon lipstick, a pair of shoes, a watch, a car: yes, these are our artifacts and we leave them behind the way Egyptian kings left behind pyramids. Clutter is the very mark of our existence. Some would say clutter is the very mark of our uniqueness. To be cluttered, to be in motion, to stretch out, to expand, to reveal oneself, to become known, seems to be the struggle, the goal even. A struggle that leaves opposing parties tugging at an invisible rope, only to fall face down in the mud without victory, muchless resolution.

King Ramses was a great builder, and like most great builders, he conquered lands and came upon monuments built by great builders before him. And with the easy conscience of a thief and prevaricator, he removed the names of kings before him, and renamed monuments after himself. The more he conquered, the more cluttered and extended his kingdom became. And yet, how many people know his name today? And how many monuments bear his name? His monuments lay buried in the sands; his name eroded by the elements.

Each and everyone of us is Ramses. Each and everyone of us generates artifacts, generates clutter. And each and everyone of us will one day be forgotten. A few will end up as footnotes in dusty, crumbled history books, but in due time these history books will be forgotten. New artifacts will be collected, new monuments made, new idols erected and cherished.

We like Shelley's Ozymandias will sink deeper and deeper into times eroding sands, yelping and tuging, screaming and moaning, bereft and unheard. Standing neck deep in oblivion. And that is how we the cluttered, will be forced to become uncluttered.

The man in the picture above is a metaphor for the uncluttered life. The picture was taken in Bombay. Who is he and how does he make a living? More importantly, the question rarely asked of him or of us, is how does he enrich his soul. What pleases him? Clearly, not artifacts. He has no artifacts, much like the dog curled up beneath him. He is the epitome of the uncluttered life. His skin is his tent, his shelter. Such refinement I have never seen, as I see in this man's skin and his simple countanance.

Sleep as strong as the envy of departed kings grips this man, sleep which we who are so cluttered cannot court, nor sustain, rests comfortably across his face. He is settled, firmly centered, calm, and at peace. While we levitate; our legs reaching for solid ground, seeking fertile grounds were we can make a monument.

by impeccable beast