Poetry in Motion

Creativity
Where do you find creativity?
Under a stone or in the
air where the birds fly?
In a tree or running in a meadow?
In a book or hidden in the unpublished mind?
Creativity is found where you look.
~Peter Reding, from Poetry notebook 2000.

(note to any current or future roommates, there is a difference between disordered and dirty. I am a clean person and can't stand for my environment to go from unorganized to gross)

For some reason, chores to me are not daily, necessary, and generally quick tasks to get out of the way in order to enjoy the rest of the day. No, chores for me are colossal endeavors that take planning, multiple days, and a great deal of procrastination. Because of this, I tend to look at simple tasks- laundry, vacuuming, dishes- as a dreaded gateway to hours of sorting, resorting, and general tedium and or chaos. This dislike of chores becomes self-perpetuating as I wait until I've worn the last clean pair of socks or used the last dinner plate before starting these chores. I inherently understand the law of entropy*- increasing disorder of a system- and it takes a considerable degree of motivation for me to combat this trend. Add to this equation my good upbringing and the fact that I have learned how to do all of these chores, and second, my pseudo-perfectionist tendencies, when I do find this long-lost motivation, I go all out.

Such has been the case this week. I have set out to clean my room and this task quickly snowballed into a massive undertaking. I fully understand that this philosophy of housekeeping is irrational but nonetheless it is true for me. Starting with my desk, I've organized all my CDs (software, blank, and audio), sorted my pen box from the 1st grade forward, trashing everything that didn't write, collected all standard photographs into a box (with the intention to digitize them) and then moved on into the closet. A goodwill box, a trash bag, and storage containers accompanied me as I removed sweaters I've owned since middle school and haven't worn in five or six years (and won't need in SoCal), boxed up by country, ticket stubs, fliers, maps, and brochures gathered as keepsakes for the yet to be (ever to be?) completed scrapbooks from my trips to India (2003), Spain (2004), and Thailand (2006). And then things got ugly....I found my notebooks from high school! AP Calculus, English, Statistics, Psychology, Euro, and Biology plus Geometry, Spanish, Physics, extracurriculars (Boy Scouts, YMCA, band, community service, creative problem solving...) and miscellaneous folders: mountains of paperwork I was unable to part with 5 years ago. Fortunately, amongst this chaos I had a stroke of rational decisiveness and proceeded to throw away (yes recycle) nearly all of these old notebooks. I won't say it was pleasant, nor was it easy; the only thing that got me through it was the knowledge that I completed chemistry and leadership minors, Psych and Bio majors, studied abroad in Spain, and finished the prereqs for medical school so I am in trouble if I need to reference my high school notes on these subjects. Having made up my mind to get rid of these items, I still sifted through each binder, looking for things worth saving. I didn't leave empty handed....a group photo from my middle schools trip to Space camp, a copy of my high school salutatorian speech, prom photos, and the Poetry Notebook 2000.

The Poetry Notebook was a required assignment that I recall dreading at the time, and that's about all I remember. However, somewhere along the process things clicked and I began to understand the freedom possible in spite of rigid structure, meter, or rhythm and to appreciate the creative power of poetic license. Today, my bottomless reading list may not contain many poets near the top of the list, but I no longer avoid the genre as a whole. My family reminds me that I will not have the time or energy to continue this style of cleaning in my future. My mom even suggests that I need to start dating/have a girlfriend as an instant motivation for me to amend my inefficient cleaning strategies. While I do not wholly disagree with this assessment, at least this week I am enjoying my old habits. My cleaning methods may be time consuming, chaotic, and initially counter-productive (making a bigger mess while cleaning), but I am complete, thorough, and I cherish the memories uncovered during the process. Reflecting on my past, reminiscing about prior challenges and accomplishments, and appreciating where I've come from as I clear away the clutter and prepare for new notes, new memories, new habits, and new experiences.

"Sarah Cynthia Sylvia Stout / Would Not Take the Garbage Out" Where The Sidewalk Ends (1974)
~ Shel Silverstein
Sarah Cynthia Sylvia Stout
Would not take the garbage out!
She'd scour the pots and scrape the pans,
Candy the yams and spice the hams,
And though her daddy would scream and shout,
She simply would not take the garbage out.
And so it piled up to the ceilings:
Coffee grounds, potato peelings,
Brown bananas, rotten peas,
Chunks of sour cottage cheese.
It filled the can, it covered the floor,
It cracked the window and blocked the door
With bacon rinds and chicken bones,
Drippy ends of ice cream cones,
Prune pits, peach pits, orange peel,
Gloopy glumps of cold oatmeal,
Pizza crusts and withered greens,
Soggy beans and tangerines,
Crusts of black burned buttered toast,
Gristly bits of beefy roasts...
The garbage rolled on down the hall,
It raised the roof, it broke the wall...
Greasy napkins, cookie crumbs,
Globs of gooey bubble gum,
Cellophane from green baloney,
Rubbery blubbery macaroni,
Peanut butter, caked and dry,
Curdled milk and crusts of pie,
Moldy melons, dried-up mustard,
Eggshells mixed with lemon custard,
Cold french fries and rancid meat,
yellow lumps of Cream of Wheat.
At last the garbage reached so high
That finally it touched the sky.
And all the neighbors moved away,
And none of her friends would come to play.
And finally Sarah Cynthia Stout said,
"OK, I'll take the garbage out!"
But then, of course, it was too late...
The garbage reached across the state,
From New York to the Golden Gate.
And there, in the garbage she did hate,
Poor Sarah met an awful fate,
That I cannot right now relate
Because the hour is much too late.
But children, remember Sarah Stout
And always take the garbage out!

http://wanderingstan.com/poetrynight2002/poetrynight2002.html
*an interesting post on entropy versus enthalpy
http://passionforgod.blogspot.com/2006/03/enthalpy-vs-entropy-means-of-end.html

Oh yeah I was a bone head and almost forgot...anatomy: "Babies are born with 270 soft bones - about 64 more than an adult; and many of these will fuse together by the age of twenty or twenty-five into the 206 hard, permanent bones." http://www.innerbody.com/text/skelov_new.php