I’m not a hoarder, but I know some. The displacement of the sense of security into a pile of material goods is disquieting mainly because of the co-morbid desensitization to humans that accompanies it.
Those Are Some Fighting Words, Victor, When You Have So Many Socks
Hey, I like good socks. Especially soft ones with ribbing on the part that goes up your calf. I guess the tube part? I’m sure people who knit their own socks would know all about what that part of the sock is called. I don’t know how to knit.
But I Made Those Crochet Chains In Elementary School; Did You?
When a person transfers their spontaneous hunger for intimacy into an insatiable hoard of things, trouble, it is a-brewin’. I used to think, when I was at my friend’s house and I was thirteen, that the parents must just be badly educated, or inexperienced in the ways of the world. Perhaps, I told myself, if these people were exposed to the calm wonder of an orderly space, they would erupt into happier people. Being an earnest young sponge, I got permission to clean a closet, and set to on a fine, sunny afternoon.
Silly Victor! You Can’t Help A Hoarder!
Well, I know that now, but I didn’t know it then. Once the family of my erstwhile friend attempted to acquire me, to add me to their growing pile of junk, I drifted efficiently away. They were dirty people. And they had a disturbing habit of acquiring dangerously-untrained pets. They lived down the street from a police officer, and he would go out to his car and turn on the siren when they (the family) set off contraband fireworks on the holidays. As a sort of *stop doing illegal shit or I’ll come over there* maneuver.
Did It Work?
My parents, being in the business of lending me out willy-nilly to anyone who expressed an interest for me, ignored the not-very-charming shenanigans of my former-friend’s family. When I extricated myself from the nasty hoarders, they tried to stalk me for a while, and that jolted my mother-personage into some semblance of concern.
Ah, The Possessor Of The Womb From Which I Was Flung
My mother went through a phase in my middle-school years when she purchased several varieties of extremely cheap perfume, and doused herself with it before picking me up from school. (She was afraid of the high-schoolers on the bus smoking in front me of, purportedly, but I think she just wanted control.) (And the neighbors smoked, and were friendly with us, so her excuse was not coherent.) I still get nauseated when 2:26 rolls around.
She Was A Hoarder, Too
My parents collected books, paper, and garbage. I was the designated cleaner of the house, and I was not allowed to throw things away. Therefore, I spent much of my life dusting garbage, vacuuming under debris, and stacking up books that no one wanted and no one read. I went back into the house once before I moved away, and my parents are deliberately letting the walls rot in the corners. I think they’re goading my siblings into fixing the house for them. Because the other progeny of the unhappy pairing are still consumed with guilt and obligation, the poor bastards.
Well, This Has Naught To Do With Writing, But It’ll Do
I told you yesterday I was opening up the squish in my ribs; welcome to the fester and decay of energy cleansing. Today I am breaking all of the rules my handlers set around me; this results in the facsimile of a violent flu (all false, somatisation, and mind-games), but the threat of death and assault will do that to a body. Now it is a matter of enduring the symptoms. They eventually fade, when your physical form gradually wakes to the fact that no one is attacking you just because you took a shower not on the designated day of approved showering.
Hi, I’m Victor
Bad Writing (Muddy Pronouns):
Kedar wanted him to see for himself; if only, he thought, Philas would spontaneously realize that he should follow his every whim, his life would simplify greatly.
“And you will have to watch him,” he went on.
“Yes, yes, he will certainly try some funny business when we get there.”
“And you’ll need to hide what you’re doing, because she isn’t going to like being watched over.”
“No, she doesn’t like anyone helping her. He’ll have to be careful around me.”
“That’s a good man.”
“Is there anything else I should do?”
“Yes, there was another thing I was thinking of. It is rather delicate, and I don’t want to tell you straight out what it is, but there we are. Can you keep a secret from the others?”
Good Writing (Clear Pronouns):
“But his hair,” Philas said, his face screwing up into a look of incredulity.
“Precisely. Lim has a great belief in himself, a belief that is rarely substantiated by reality. He has tried many times to purchase wigs, but the ladies of the market, bless their souls, would die before they catered to a slave.”
“Pretentious idiot,” Philas said.
“Yes, Lim has rather overreached himself in many ways. I want you to watch him for me. He’s had it out for Ajalia ever since she took Uliam’s place, and I don’t know if she is prepared to defend herself adequately.”
“I’ll watch him,” Philas growled. Kedar’s eyes were fixed closely on his second-favorite slave’s face, and a gleam of satisfaction was in his whole demeanor.
“Good,” Kedar said. “Already you bring peace and comfort to my soul. Now, for the second part.”
Burning Is Best, For Septic Energy
And hot white light, from the admixture of pure aural tones, burns quite well. Passing it through the deepest parts of your body will force the rotten memories out, and purge them. It’ll make you sick, though, and you have to watch yourself for personality lapses when it’s happening. Many a snide body has concealed a trigger within a bad memory, like a landmine of transformative evil. Beware the hidden packages of festering implantation, and remember, functionality is the key to success.
You’re reading a blog about writing by Victor Poole. The cleansing of infected auras is described accurately in this series, and if you want to know what it feels like to be threatened with murder, pick up this book. Friday is my other favorite day, because it means I’m going to watch television tomorrow.