The Joy of Lint

For those who don’t know, Lintballing is the careful accumulation and nurturing of that stuff that comes out of your drier filter, that stuff that can make your life a living hell if not attended to, and which can be an element of endless creativity if you utilize it properly. Evidently, humans have made friends with dryer ‘fluff’ and have come to view its accumulation as art, as science, and as culture. Yes, this phenomenon has come to the fore at the very time when our lives are most insecure--when our jobs most threatened, our finances most pilfered, and our futures most uncertain. Lint has entered to save the day.

It started, as many things do, with a person in a chatroom.

A woman whose name will remain unblogged mentioned that she saved—that is to say, collected—the fluff from her dryer. She found that this dryer ‘fluff’ formed beautiful, intricate patterns when it was gathered together into artfully manipulated ‘balls’ that were both pleasing and satisfying. In what most of us would ordinarily overlook and discard, she had found beauty and Art.

When I first heard of it, it struck me so deeply that I wanted to participate in this ‘lintball phenomenon.’ I began collecting this fibrous output from my dryer filter, and it did, in fact, have wonderful bits of color that called to mind not only the clothing and material it came from, but the people and events that surrounded that clothing. And collecting this lint was a sensory experience as well. Smelling fresh from the fabric softener, and soft from the fluffing of the dryer, it was the kind of thing that made you put your nose right into it and savor the moment. But I soon found that collecting lint demanded a focus and dedication that I did not possess--well, not for lint, anyway. Houseguests came and treated the lint like so much garbage. And this caused a deep resentment for my guests that I otherwise would not have felt. They didn’t understand me AT ALL—they didn’t even KNOW me--and they sure didn’t respect my property. The nerve of these people.

It was after one of these occurrences when my carefully crafted lintball was thrown into the trash, that I began to see that my attachment to this collection of lint was perhaps not healthy. That is the hazard of lintballing—it is addictive and absorbing. So I tossed the lintball and stopped lintballing altogether. I’m not saying I don’t still have the craving, because the fact is, I still appreciate and caress the little woven sheets that come off my dryer filter (“Oh, that’s a nice one!” and “Look, there’s Mom’s sweater!”). I just don’t attach to the emotion anymore. I let it go. But I still retain an interest in lint in general, and communicate often with the woman who started the phenomenon, so that I can vicariously enjoy her collection.

To update:

Her lintball has grown to unmanageable proportion and she has decided to burn it, ritually, on a day and time meaningful to her. I find this not only fitting, but a decision that must be supported. Why, I don’t know. Lint is symbolic of something else, it seems. All that we throw away—all that we consume without thinking—all that we leave behind.

She decided on the June 21st, the beginning of summer. It was only then that she told me a story of a demanding, abusive husband, who pulled out the lint from the dryer and showed it to his wife with the words, “There—see how you waste our clothing?”

I knew that the woman who related this story to me had no tolerance for abusive men in any way, nor even women who allowed themselves to be abused. Yet, the story stuck in her mind. And it sticks in mine.

At this, I suggested that some Tori Amos music might be a suitable accompaniment for the lintball-burning ceremony. She agreed. We might even post the burning event on youtube. A ‘Burning Lintball,’ rather like the Burning Man event in Nevada—only with particular meaning for women. Announcements will be forthcoming.

This blog entry has gone on for too long, and I have no idea why. As I said, lint is symbolic of something else. A metaphor.
Consider it yourself, and see what it means to you.