The Battle of The Mess

It is Tuesday.

He decides that the house is messy enough, and a little elbow grease wouldn't hurt. The pile of magazines and assorted knick-knacks defy him, in their own silent way. They sit in the corner, looking all formidable and mess-like. It is an unspoken challenge, but it reverberates throughout the apartment. "Take us apart," they taunt. "See if you won't end up sweaty and tired, and we'll still be here."

He imagines himself like one of those samurai in the chambara movies, gritting his teeth and squaring his shoulders. For good measure he grips the palms of his hands, tight. There is a little pang of disappointment as he realises there is no crackling sound that comes out of that act. It is real life, after all, so he settles for the second best: he twists his neck slowly, from left to right. This time, there is a sound. It is loud too. He takes this as a sign. The battle can begin.

The Old Ladies say there is an art to approaching the messy bookshelf. One should not rush into it, for the bookshelf is wise, and learned in the secret art of the Bookslide Ambush. It has expected this attack, and has prepared its defenses well. He cautiosly scouts the area, looking for an opening or a sign of a possible trap. In times like these, a single mistake could cause the entire effort to fail.

There is none. Bordered by the Great Circular Dining Table and backed against a wall, the Bookshelf is in a good position. Our hero (if hero he can be called, which is highly unlikely since he's in a tattered pair of shorts and an old shirt) leans back to rethink his options. He stares hard at the pile of Old Girlie Magazines, pompous on their peak. They stare back, their dogeared covers flapping in that obscene laugh only they know. The Hotlink ad comes on Astro. It is time.

His hands grasp the first layer of magazines, and lifts them off their perch and onto the floor. They resist, but as he works he realises that their taunts only serve to mask their weakness. Once on the floor, they are nothing but limp paper. He works faster, and the plastic bag next to him fills with refuse, old pieces of paper, bills. Almost too easy, he thinks, and then he gets walloped by the Stack of Memories.

(The Stack of Memories is a popular last-ditch form of defence by any Mess under threat. When activated, this attack assaults the person trying to get rid of the mess by completely surrounding him/her with items that invoke a memory flood in the person, thus drowning him/her with past memories, usually of the romantic type.)

There are bits and pieces of the old life in some of the scraps and pieces of paper. Old bills, ticket stubs, project outlines, envelopes with reminders ("buy supplies", says one, hastily jotted notes, old love letters from 1994. It's all there, and it's all unleashed with extreme prejudice. The Shelf, it seems, was not going down easy. He falters, just for a little while, and the Shelf glorifies in its victory, but nor for long. He fights back with every ounce of his strength and so-called tenacity and soon, there is no more mess.

The girlie magazines are tied up and stacked. So are most of the others. Some stragglers sit awkwardly on the floor, splayed and violated. Those he can pick up later. For now, the Shelf is manageable and organised. Not as much as he'd like, but there will be more time for improvements later. As he brings the corpses to the recycling bin he thinks he can feel the Mess plotting. It always plots, and there will be another battle for another day.

For now, the world is in balance again.


*Unrelated - check out my favourite author in an interview eating eggplant sushi here*