HELP, I'M AN ART FORM!

"Whoooo could imagine, that they would freak out, in Kansas, Kansas, badoobie-doobie-do, Kansas, Kansas. . ." from "Help, I'm a Rock," Frank Zappa and the Mothers of Invention, circa 1967 (?)

I guess it's official, now that Rodney O. Lain has declared colleagues Del and John leading examples of Mac web writing, which he believes will soon be regarded as a whole new kind of literature. (Well, I'll be jiggered!)

This is probably partly my fault, because I used to say on the Farr Site archive page that I was trying to "achieve art" with these columns. The point was that writing geekspeak is boring and I don't know the lingo anyway. I was trying to make the Macintosh Web safe for people to write about other things, and while I can't claim credit for this, it is true that the dam has burst: guys like Miller and Martellaro can talk about anything and get away with it. Hallelujah!

Whether this is literature or not, it's different. It's different because we're different! This Mac stuff is relevant and part of our lives. It's the number one reason I just drove a 12-year-old pickup truck on a 4,000 mile round trip (and will shortly drive another 2,000 miles in 4 days). It's how I've lifted myself out of total obscurity and into the light. There's even some money now: I should write a book: "From Zero to Poverty Level in Only Two Years" (No slur intended, either. When I say "zero," I ain't kiddin'. This boy is very grateful.)

Yessir, all these developments -- along with this particular technology, operating system, and the Macintosh community -- are part of my personal Big Picture now. How else would I ever have summoned the courage to grab life by the shoulders and SHAKE THE HELL OUT OF IT! (Who needs a net, anyway?) "Looky here, you: [shake-shake-slap!], we're doin' things my way now! We are NOT TRAPPED! You got that??"

In fact, we're moving!

Just don't try this at home, kids. Oh wait, I forgot: you can only do it at home! Imagine this: the movers are coming in less than a day and you have at least a week's worth of packing left! (Aaaghhh!!) O.K., don't imagine it. It's way too cruel. But that's how it was around here less than 48 hours ago. . .

HELP, I'M A PACK RAT!

Boxes everywhere! Boxes, boxes, boxes.

Some sealed with tape, some not, some waiting to be taped together, some half-filled and waiting for more things to be added from the slippery piles of mixed trash and precious possessions underfoot. Every ten minutes I lose the tape dispenser and big black marker as they merge with the flotsam. (Panic!) A hundred different incompleted tasks vie for my attention. No rest! No time!! (Panic! Panic!)

[Random dialog snippets, in no particular sequence]

"This is just impossible! But they're coming. . ."

"We have to keep that! Don't you dare throw that away!"

"This [censored] tape keeps [censored] [censored] and I can never find the [censored] end!!"

"O.K., I'm not moving the computer to the kitchen table. There's no damn time. I'll either get my desk into the pickup or leave it!"

"I'm worried about you. . ."

"O.K., we'll just give that to Katy and Jeff or sell it to the flea market guy. Or dump it!"

"Oh NO!! I just filled this box up and sealed it, but the bottom wasn't taped!"

"Have you had anything to eat?"

"TRASH IT, dammit!"

And so it went. By early evening on that last day I was staggering from box to box, forgetting where I was or what I was doing. It was impossible, at least if I wanted to take everything. My wife emailed a friend: "John is in shock. There are so many things he won't be able to take -- tools, artwork, books, books, books, artwork. I knew it would be like this, but I don't know what I can do to help him."

I still hadn't sorted out 24 years' worth of accumulated hand and power tools or a studio full of art and art supplies. The attic groaned under the weight of hundreds of books. However. . .how many of those books had I actually put my hands on in the last ten years? Twenty years?? How many tools had I reached for? And how long had it been since I stretched a canvas?

(Give it up, John. Give it all up. Let it go!)

Suddenly the brilliant unconscious reasoning behind waiting until the last minute to start packing was unveiled: of course!! I had to fail at packing in order to leave my burdens behind. If I had started a month ago like the moving company's brochures urged, I'd have had twice as much junk to deal with on the other end! Why, I wasn't a fool, I was a bleeping genius.

After all, the photos and family histories had already been packed. So had the stereo equipment, a pared-down record collection, all the CDs and half the tapes, extra computer gear, all the software, our clothes, all the heirloom china and silverware, a core collection of books and sheet music, selected small silly sentimental objects, and a box of automotive tools. Our favorite paintings and mirrors were set aside for the movers to pack. What else did we really need? A few items of furniture, which the movers would also take.

Screw the rest!

In fact, half of what we had packed was nothing but crap! What a circus. What a joke. What a lesson.

Yesterday, the movers came.

On the same day, I gave the big valuable sculptures away to friends, all of whom were surprised, touched, and extremely grateful. At least I'll be remembered!

I'm still in the process of sorting through hand tools, with the idea of keeping a few and setting some aside for other friends to play with. What's left and tons of other stuff will go to a flea market dealer for two cents on the dollar. What he doesn't want will go to a man I've never met, one "Mr. Peachin," who my real estate lady says will haul everything else away. (Boy, will he have fun -- he'll go nuts when he sees all this stuff.) The garage is filled with loose and semi-bagged trash. I'm supposed to call "Mr. Potts" to come deal with that. (No, these guys aren't a team, but maybe they should be.)

There's a lesson here, I know there is. Everything is connected. Right now the Eastern Shore is going through an unspeakably beautiful Indian summer spell, with warm temperatures, red-and-yellow leaves floating lazily downward through swarms of gnats, the fields smelling of damp earth and rot, everything setting itself up for a cleansing blast of cold November air. In a day or two the first big cold front will come sweeping through: the wind will howl, the remaining leaves will be stripped from the trees, the first frost will crumple the flowers, and the gutter pipe I propped up on the kitchen roof will fall over, with no one here to put it back up.

This would be sad, except that who can do everything? Who can own and take care of everything in the whole world?? (Well. . .)

If you looked inside the house this evening, you'd still see lots of stuff here and there. We can cram a couple more boxes worth into the pickup when we leave, but everything else is on its way out via other means. I can cry, die, or wonder why, but I can't take it with me. It belongs to the world or the Kent County landfill. The junk is dead, long live the junk!

Last night, unbelievably tired, I went to bed happier than I'd been in days. Six thousand pounds of God knows what was gone, destined for a storage unit in New Mexico. I felt light, almost euphoric, as I crawled into the sleeping bag on our surprisingly comfy mattress on the floor. Kathy was still there, all cozy and warm. The window was open to the still, damp air, and I could actually hear the maple letting go: click, rattle, rustle-rustle. . .(Nothing wrong with this picture.)

Hell, if the TREES could do it, so could I: all I had to do was give up a few leaves!

John H. Farr also edits the Apple Computer News for Applelinks.com and invites your comments. The Farr Site Archives have links to all past columns and occasional snippets of biographical info.

To be notified whenever the column is updated, just send a message titled "Subscribe FSN" to this address.

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March 16, 2010