The Stuff of Dreams

When's the last time you saw Shakespeare's The Tempest? I think occasionally of Prospero's great line, "We are such stuff as dreams are made on . . ." Humphrey Bogart quoted it wrong when he said "such stuff as dreams are made of" at the end of The Maltese Falcon, by the way. (That's BTW for you uber-texters who can't remember how to decipher actual words anymore. Just kidding. Oh, I mean JK! I don't have time to keep translating 4 U. U R on UR own now. Being bi-lingual really does come in handy, doesn't it?) Anyway--there is good precedent for misquoting Shakespeare out of context.

Critics claim that Shakespeare perfectly

captured the fleeting nature of existence and all things temporal with his nifty little iamb. Yeah, well Shakespeare never cleaned out my closets. I have spent the past week going through stuff that dreams are made on--really bad dreams.

Forgive the strong language, but I loathe STUFF. The pack-rat gene passed me by. I'm a tosser. Haven't used it recently? Doesn't fit? Pitch it. Have an extra? Never really liked it in the first place? Bye bye. Clutter muddles me. I long since gave up having three sections in my closet. You know, the "I Vowed I Would Never Buy Jeans This Size But I Can't Go Out in My Pajamas" section, next to the "I Will Get Back Into These Clothes Someday When I Give Up Food," and then that little section in the corner, "I Haven't Been This Size Since College, But Dang I Looked Good in These." No. Uh uh. One section of clothes I like and wear. Period.

Here's the thing. Not every member of my household shares my gift for de-junking. Our four children have flown the nest, but their stuff remains lurking in closets and in plastic bins under beds. They have no plans to reclaim their oddments, or even any idea what their former drawers and closets actually hold. What does one do with sixty-something assorted athletic trophies? How about a large plastic bin filled with love notes and school pictures of people my daughter hasn't seen in this century? Fourteen prom dresses in every color of the rainbow? There are things that even St. Vincent de Paul doesn't want.

We leave the door open and a light on for our adult children to come home whenever they want to, of course. But what about their stuff? Can we practice "tough love" with the detritus of two decades and box it up or give it away? How about a bonfire?! Ooooh, I like that. If you see a red glow flickering in the sky above Livermore this week, don't be alarmed. That  silhouette you see dancing around the flame with joyous abandon would be me. Feel free to back your car up to the blaze and throw in your kids' stuff.  I'll bring the marshmallows. Now that's the stuff that dreams are made on.

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