minimalisticism

I am trying to get
my head
around this idea of
minimalism – and around the
idea of getting my head
around anything,
as
though
it might
bend or crease or flow
or wind serpentitiously,
if that
even
is
possible, as though whomever
first coined
the
cliché might
know.
to cut down.
to make riddance.
to emancipate oneself
from space, itself.
and
things.
what would go? the
table from my grandfather’s
basement. the sewing machine
from grandma’s
bedroom. the
secretary – a piece of
furniture, not a she (or a he) –
from that old
musty
room next to the
bar with
the silhouette of the naked woman, bust, breast and nipples,
which always caused me
mortal pause
as a boy.
(“Father, I have sinned, for I
looked at the naked
lady’s boobs on Uncle Bob’s
painting on grampa’s bar.”)
the TV cabinet.
the cane chairs.
the knicks and
knacks.
to be replaced by:
a
modular couch
(in a deep forest green)
and an HD TV.
and
a different attitude,
presumably:
what does one need;
what do I need;
what is
important.
space.
a place.
or just, perhaps: more
freedom
from the
past
at last.