Bertrand russell once said that life on this planet is composed of moving things around close to the surface. I think we've made it more complicated than that. We move it around then spend all our time putting stuff into containers.
I started counting containers in my home the other day. I soon realised I was living inside one of those Russian Dolls, you know, the kind that nest inside each other, except I wasn't so well organized. I have a house, twelve rooms, ten closets, twenty-eight cupboards, furniture with dozens of drawers, food containers, cups, glasses and bottles, packages, fridges and freezers, toolboxes, and countless vases, and a packed garage. I must have a couple of thousand containers. We should only have enough that can be neatly nested like the Russian dolls.
There are other containers — tapes and videos, photograph albums, CDs, and books. I have shoes which are containers for feet. I dare say I could hardly wear out all the shoes I have before I die, plus clothing which I suppose are containers for people. Then there are cars — moving containers for people.
Is it any wonder we develop this overwhelming confusion about what's important in life, regardless of the environmental impact of producing this stuff, and the sheer meaninglessness of designing it. That's the whole problem with people, we feel the need to contain everything. We even contain and compartmentalize our beliefs — people, races, religions, towns and cities, whole countries. Then when that isn't enough, we try to steal other folks’ containers, or break them. We have too many, but we won't share.
A place for everything and everything in its place, except there are too many places. The most people I think I've ever had at my house at any one time can't have exceeded forty, and no one had to drink out of Tupperware. People honoured simplicity by drinking beer from the bottle.
The saddest thing is this earth can only contain just so many people and their containers.
© 1996 David M.
Hobson
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