Dusting

Well, I'll tell you right off, I'm not big on that. I live's by myself--friends, family, come and go... It's a one bedroom place--hardwood floors...above a city street. I'm a male--Old, it's true. but I keeps the place clean, other than that.

I mean, I like things... things I can arrange into meanings...things, like momentms; that have meaning, attached to past events. As one ages, one likes to sit and pan the room with the eyes and remember-- go there awhile in your mind--I do. Think into those events... those people.... remember their names... feelings; exchanges we had.. Shelves get a little crowded, Arrangements everywhere... Like a gigantic rosary to life... my life with them, in its fragments of their lives come and gone...passed on through mine.

Well, you know: You get into dusting, unless it becomes an over riding obsession, shelves gradually becom darn near bare. Areas more and more flat; you know what I mean. That practical side of oneself takes over and you start to put things into boxes rather than read them... run over them with your eyes and the memories they unwind...things get forotten... and life itself becomes more and more flat and bare.

Like, when we were in each others lives, we interacted every day... right? Touched--- can't do that now, in the far ages coming on... These are my things, as I slowly become still, that keep you all in my being... I learns to live with a little dust... I dusts eventually... but I learns to live with it too...