Under My Bed
I am clearing the fluff out from under my bed. To quote Michael Rosen. In this case fluff is a metaphor for stuff I think I don’t need. That I suspect is keeping me awake. The whole thing’s a metaphor for my mind which is what’s really keeping me awake. Although it could be a chicken and egg thing.
How do creationists respond to the chicken and egg thing? Is it not a thing for them at all? Because God created each thing separately, but not the baby versions – that would have taken ages. He just created chickens and let them go forth and get on with it. I imagine. In that version of things.
How I would love to have a secure version of things.
It ain’t happening.
I DIGRESS. I PREGNANT TIGRESS.
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I am clearing the stuff out from under my bed. I am dividing things into Past and Present. There is no pile for Future. Past has been severely reduced. Edited. Tough decisions have been made. Did your wedding thank you card make the grade? Was your personal message worth hanging onto? Why did I keep that card with a cat on it and not your homemade christmas tree? I cannot tell you.
Should I have chucked that 22-page letter that I never sent about how angry I was and how I loved you deeply in spite of it? Not yet. Is someone at the Recycling Plant going to steal my emotional identity and attempt to make sense of themselves? Good luck to them I say. Perhaps they will succeed where I have failed.
For someone who does not paint I have a bewilderingly large collection of watercolours.
I am wondering whether there is a proper way of disposing of an old printer with whom the relationship has not survived a very rocky patch. It refused to print the words I requested, it did colours and it did blurry lines. For a while we struggled with each other, then there was silence. In that silence, I decided that it was time to end it. I’ve never been very good at endings. However, I am starting with inanimate objects, as a training.
PHOTOS. Boxes and boxes of old headshots that I painstakingly posted to people on whose desks I thought I was supposed to appear. I’m not dying or anything – at least no more quickly than I should be, as far as I am aware. And yet something is dying and something is birthing and I can’t tell you what’s what or what’s not what. So I am clearing out the stuff from under my bed.
When you have done something for a long time it is difficult to stop doing it. Once you stop doing it you may find it barely enters your head ever again. Such is the fickle nature of the mind and its attempt to grasp at meaning somewhere. I am stepping out into the unmarked swamp of nowness. I am sinking, Egypt, sinking. My songs are smarter than I am. Here’s a vow
GIVE UP THE PLAN