That rustle you hear in the night is the midget under your bed.
Damn Straight. I finished my spring cleaning in December when I doused the pile of assorted holiday decorations in my front yard with kerosene and flicked the stub of my deceased cigarette to it's next incendiary calling. I was standing on my driveway, me and Bloody Mary, in my crimson red bathrobe, as this compulsion of hefty cleaning swung at me 4 a.m. one morning. Maybe it was time to let go.
I realize now that I began this entry really more towards the middle of my thoughts. Of course, when your mind chases the imaginable possibilities of a rubber pink flamingo, a bath tub laden with cheerios, reggae music played with a harp and a mad group of Icelandic tribal elders, thoughts never come ready organized in a beginning, middle or end. Rather just a dirty slew of expired fantasies and a general impatience for everything. Bazaar? Perhaps. Honest? Definately. Why hide the inevitable reality of your existence??
I have digressed. And simultaneously left the universe wondering what has compelled me to write about spring cleaning and honesty in the same jaded entry. Recently, it has come to the forefront of my attention that most everyone around me is consumed by the feat of spring cleaning their lives. As if it were all bed sheets that could be hung up and repainted as easily as your living room walls. It remains funny to me how walls are cleaned merely by skating a loaded roller of paint on their surface. There lies the point anyway that walls are merely just surfaces. But who is to say people are not a conglomeration of five sensory surfaces? Paint over them if you must.
I will use a towering capitol letter "I" to declare that I finished my Spring Cleaning long ago, in the depths of last year. A year that has already been swept under the rug, if you will. Already has a pattern of steps readily imprinted in the mound. Sweeping under things was always more effective than sweeping out the door. Opening the door to the world might posssibly let in more dirt to cover the surfaces beyond your threshold. You would be doing more cleaning than you had bargained for. I would be lying if I said I did not live by this all encompassing paradigm. Course I never opened my door to do my cleaning. I lit a cigarette and watched the curls of smoke float past the tip of my nose, staining my fingers with smell and blurring my vision.
Last night a friend explained to me that there are wondering minds, and there are concentrated minds. This person, whom shall remain genderless though I will assign a temporary name of Pat, feared it was their wondering mind that would in the long run keep them from achieving anything. I told them they should invest in some spring cleaning.
That is all.
Out.
I realize now that I began this entry really more towards the middle of my thoughts. Of course, when your mind chases the imaginable possibilities of a rubber pink flamingo, a bath tub laden with cheerios, reggae music played with a harp and a mad group of Icelandic tribal elders, thoughts never come ready organized in a beginning, middle or end. Rather just a dirty slew of expired fantasies and a general impatience for everything. Bazaar? Perhaps. Honest? Definately. Why hide the inevitable reality of your existence??
I have digressed. And simultaneously left the universe wondering what has compelled me to write about spring cleaning and honesty in the same jaded entry. Recently, it has come to the forefront of my attention that most everyone around me is consumed by the feat of spring cleaning their lives. As if it were all bed sheets that could be hung up and repainted as easily as your living room walls. It remains funny to me how walls are cleaned merely by skating a loaded roller of paint on their surface. There lies the point anyway that walls are merely just surfaces. But who is to say people are not a conglomeration of five sensory surfaces? Paint over them if you must.
I will use a towering capitol letter "I" to declare that I finished my Spring Cleaning long ago, in the depths of last year. A year that has already been swept under the rug, if you will. Already has a pattern of steps readily imprinted in the mound. Sweeping under things was always more effective than sweeping out the door. Opening the door to the world might posssibly let in more dirt to cover the surfaces beyond your threshold. You would be doing more cleaning than you had bargained for. I would be lying if I said I did not live by this all encompassing paradigm. Course I never opened my door to do my cleaning. I lit a cigarette and watched the curls of smoke float past the tip of my nose, staining my fingers with smell and blurring my vision.
Last night a friend explained to me that there are wondering minds, and there are concentrated minds. This person, whom shall remain genderless though I will assign a temporary name of Pat, feared it was their wondering mind that would in the long run keep them from achieving anything. I told them they should invest in some spring cleaning.
That is all.
Out.