Acquisition
The urge to collect
comes to its natural end.
The necessities, of course.
But then, the pleasure of acquisition wanes;
the uncompleted sets,
dust collectors
and never opened books.
You have amassed, hoarded, stored
a lifetime of objects,
like talismans
you believed would protect.
Only to realize
you will enter the future light,
dead-weight
just pulls you down.
The books, stacked ceiling high
once help you up,
the proximity of wisdom
seemed good enough.
But now, you feel the urge to write
your own
unencumbered future,
on a journey, wherever
with only what's on your back --
a seeker, sojourning in desert,
Samaritan
at the side of the road.
Fast, and nimble
with all that baggage
comes to its natural end.
The necessities, of course.
But then, the pleasure of acquisition wanes;
the uncompleted sets,
dust collectors
and never opened books.
You have amassed, hoarded, stored
a lifetime of objects,
like talismans
you believed would protect.
Only to realize
you will enter the future light,
dead-weight
just pulls you down.
The books, stacked ceiling high
once help you up,
the proximity of wisdom
seemed good enough.
But now, you feel the urge to write
your own
unencumbered future,
on a journey, wherever
with only what's on your back --
a seeker, sojourning in desert,
Samaritan
at the side of the road.
Fast, and nimble
with all that baggage
left behind.
A child who trusts
that fate somehow provides.
Collecting can becomes pathological: the hoarders, the obsessive-compulsives.
But we all collect, acquiring way too much stuff throughout our lives; stuff that just attracts dust, while mildly rebuking us: both as the residue of unrealized ambitions, and as mementos of our previous selves. And offering a kind of psychological protection as well: in the comfort of the familiar, and as a bulwark against the future. And then the sentimental stuff, of course; which no one else could possibly understand.
I read an essay about a chaotic basement chock full of unread books: the pathological kind of collecting that becomes an end in itself. But it also represents a kind of potential: a belief in self-improvement, and that the future is always a better place. That is where this poem started. In the end, the man is struck down by debilitating illness, while his long-suffering and resentful wife rediscovers the downstairs. And as she organizes the place, starts to take great delight in reading through it.
Material things hold no attraction for me, other than utility. Possession doesn't confer security, and I'm not motivated by status or fashion or envy. But still, at this late (not that late, I hope -- but still!) stage of my life, I can look around and see that I've acquired way too much. Instead of feeling comforted, I just feel weighed down. So this is basically another tired juvenile anti-materialistic rant; but nicely disguised as the wisdom of an older man!
A child who trusts
that fate somehow provides.
Collecting can becomes pathological: the hoarders, the obsessive-compulsives.
But we all collect, acquiring way too much stuff throughout our lives; stuff that just attracts dust, while mildly rebuking us: both as the residue of unrealized ambitions, and as mementos of our previous selves. And offering a kind of psychological protection as well: in the comfort of the familiar, and as a bulwark against the future. And then the sentimental stuff, of course; which no one else could possibly understand.
I read an essay about a chaotic basement chock full of unread books: the pathological kind of collecting that becomes an end in itself. But it also represents a kind of potential: a belief in self-improvement, and that the future is always a better place. That is where this poem started. In the end, the man is struck down by debilitating illness, while his long-suffering and resentful wife rediscovers the downstairs. And as she organizes the place, starts to take great delight in reading through it.
Material things hold no attraction for me, other than utility. Possession doesn't confer security, and I'm not motivated by status or fashion or envy. But still, at this late (not that late, I hope -- but still!) stage of my life, I can look around and see that I've acquired way too much. Instead of feeling comforted, I just feel weighed down. So this is basically another tired juvenile anti-materialistic rant; but nicely disguised as the wisdom of an older man!
The part about the seeker in the desert comes from an
ancient and seemingly universal tradition: the spiritual practice of seeking
wisdom/transcendence/revelation by means of an ascetic and solitary journey
into the wilderness. Like all those Biblical prophets sojourning in the desert,
enlightenment comes through renunciation.
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