Comments
In this column, we present the heat (and cold) of pop culture, judging whether the subject is overstated or understated.
Tom Joyce
It’s about this time every year that we turn our attention to a substance that can embarrass us, burn down houses and, on a good day, even save our lives – not always in that order.
The fire authority warns us about it. We look at ourselves without thinking. And if extreme rescuers are to be believed, we shouldn’t leave our basement or suburban rental without a small supply.
For poets – that hardy and useless breed – lint is first and foremost a metaphor. But don’t let them pretend they don’t worry too quietly about lighting up their house.
Based on the original story, intrigue and repulse in equal measure. Fire officials insist they must be removed regularly to avoid spontaneous combustion, which makes it sound like a small, self-igniting boil.
We don’t know if the philosopher Jean-Paul Sartre ever thought of wool beyond the removal of regulations to prevent fire. But if he had it, he could say it takes up space between things because it has mass; process because it creates a series; and heresy because it appears without our consent.
Poets, French or otherwise, see in cotton a slow revelation: shedding, humiliating, sometimes destructive, occasionally a wretched collection of man-made filth. A quiet collapse of order that is, in a way, also a possible savior.
Ah, cotton – a belly button, a nail, a clothes dryer – we know you very little, we respect you very little, we are often embarrassed by you, but you can save our lives in danger.
You would do well to ignore the old advice that in an emergency you should not sit around ‘navel-gazing’.
It is reported to have caused the fire that brought down the aircraft carrier USS Gerald Ford in the early days of the Iran war, achieving what missiles and drones of all shapes and sizes could not. Who needs a weapon penetration tool when a cloth fire will do?
Dry construction is now one of the leading causes of house fires. It wasn’t always like that. In the distant 20th century – after the dinosaurs but before the iPhone – when the Hills Hoist swung proudly in the Australian courtyard and the white-white Bonds didn’t get snagged on loose clotheslines, the wool-drying branch of the family didn’t exist. Belly button cotton, yes. Nail polish (especially from big toes), yes. But clothes dryer wool? Not yet.
You burned down industrial clothes and threatened hotels and hospitals that were set up long before you came in and changed our home life. And on a dirty, cold day, a little risk of fire is certainly a small price to pay for warm sheets.
But enough about dryers. Belly buttons and nails have a lot more – and probably more – to offer. Come the apocalypse, when we are long past our last box of matches and struggle to light the fire to cook our bush turkey fresh caught, only billionaire preppers will be safe placed in their lairs gas stove-equipment underground. The rest of us will have to improve.
This is where you’d do well to ignore the old advice that in an emergency you shouldn’t sit around and “navel-gaze”. Au contraire, looking at the navel – and scratching – can save your life.
Lint can be embarrassing – few people take pride in seeing it in their stomachs – but imagine the plight of our intrepid, culinary turkey survivors. Raw turkey tonight? Don’t think.
Lint may feel like slow decay but it packs a surprising punch on the way out. Belly button cotton is, in essence, pre-blown fluff: tiny fibers stripped from your clothes, mixed with dry skin scraps that burn, lightly coated in body fat that burns better, and compressed naturally into a small, breathable, burning ball. It’s an accident package for the human body, which is perfect for when you’re out of shape.
Lint is the only material that can light your campfire, burn down your house, shut down an aircraft carrier and inspire poets and philosophers to mine it for metaphor and meaning.
In a world where you need instant pick-me-up: check your belly tab for cotton before you leave home. If the apocalypse comes while you’re out, at least you’ll be able to cook a hot meal.
