Your home sounds lovely and your piece on it affected me in strange ways, mostly exhibited with jabs of envy. I suffer from a distinct lack of decorating impulse and talent. I suppose our belief systems are probably best exhibited in what we show rather than what we say. For example; people who believe in the therapeutic power of beauty have beautiful homes, people who are saved by order have orderly homes, foodies have great kitchens, pop-culture geeks fill their lives with remnants and reminders of the art that has made their life worth living. My space; be that home, bedroom, workspace or car, is inevitably cluttered and directionless. Papers, books, cds and unfinished projects jut out in various directions using the bed as an axis. The walls beg for hangings they will never see. Organization comes in one form: the pile. Often, I have to plot a course through the maze just to get to the bathroom - it sort of resembles hopscotch. I often share my bed with five or six library books. Chaos and nihilism carry the day and any visitor can track the progress of these two states of being in my daily life by just dropping by for a beer.
Strangely, my home often serves as a comfort for my friends. Love me, love the mess. I suppose that there is something to be said for just being yourself. My pad is a vacation destination for some of the coolest people around. There is an empty transient quality that allows the occupant to make up their own mind. There is personality in the reckless indifference to style and function.
However, I still wish I had a clue as to how to spruce up a place.