On Cleaning And Being Just
I am too busy playing Scrabble on facebook, which means that the words come one at a time, in single letters. This whole paragraph thing seems evasive.
Today at work, I sorted through piles and piles of floppy thin eighties children's books, Benji and Pound Puppies and Jem and Wuzzles and things like that. The couple that brought them in had a kid aged maybe seven or eight, a normal little girl who talked to us some and then went off looking for a Sailor Moon book. The couple seemed like a nice couple of grown-ups. They talked like people who pay bills and have a good community around them. They were pleasant, they were adults, and when I took a form of identification to pay out the money for their books, I realized that they were my age. And I kind of felt like a fuck-up, dear reader. But in an inspiring way, truly.
I felt like maybe I am tired of being the girl who has spats and sulks, who languishes and burnishes and strews detritus around on any available surface. How many deadlines and whole-hearted promises have I half-assed on? What sort of things have been broken in my care?
The house today is cluttered. It has been for a couple weeks, I think, now. The significant man of the house came home one day and felt the need for a fresh start, and he was correct in that. We've lived in my floor plan for ages, and he shuffled up the furniture and committed the sacrosanct act of vacuuming under the bed, rousing the generations of dust that tufted up around abandoned ARCs and lonely shoes. But we didn't follow through, because he took the biggest bite possible. The bedroom is sparse and clean, the living room is rearranged and reordered, but piles abide in the dining room, in the office, around the doors.
I have taken great pleasure in being able to assemble a cacophony of myselfs from the pieces I have tucked away in this place. But it's one thing to relish all the different folks I could become by scrummaging and ravenging through the piles and dark corners, and it's quite another thing to rid myself of the excess and just flat-out become that clean-cornered person.
Today at work, I sorted through piles and piles of floppy thin eighties children's books, Benji and Pound Puppies and Jem and Wuzzles and things like that. The couple that brought them in had a kid aged maybe seven or eight, a normal little girl who talked to us some and then went off looking for a Sailor Moon book. The couple seemed like a nice couple of grown-ups. They talked like people who pay bills and have a good community around them. They were pleasant, they were adults, and when I took a form of identification to pay out the money for their books, I realized that they were my age. And I kind of felt like a fuck-up, dear reader. But in an inspiring way, truly.
I felt like maybe I am tired of being the girl who has spats and sulks, who languishes and burnishes and strews detritus around on any available surface. How many deadlines and whole-hearted promises have I half-assed on? What sort of things have been broken in my care?
The house today is cluttered. It has been for a couple weeks, I think, now. The significant man of the house came home one day and felt the need for a fresh start, and he was correct in that. We've lived in my floor plan for ages, and he shuffled up the furniture and committed the sacrosanct act of vacuuming under the bed, rousing the generations of dust that tufted up around abandoned ARCs and lonely shoes. But we didn't follow through, because he took the biggest bite possible. The bedroom is sparse and clean, the living room is rearranged and reordered, but piles abide in the dining room, in the office, around the doors.
I have taken great pleasure in being able to assemble a cacophony of myselfs from the pieces I have tucked away in this place. But it's one thing to relish all the different folks I could become by scrummaging and ravenging through the piles and dark corners, and it's quite another thing to rid myself of the excess and just flat-out become that clean-cornered person.