Yard sales confuse the hell out of me. I’m incredibly nosy so I like looking at other people’s stuff, wondering about what they like to collect and what they no longer want.
But confronted with the actuality of someone else’s stuff in a yard sale context, I am almost always put off. My own clutter makes sense to me, because even if it is not perfectly ordered it is exactly where I expect it to be.
I have no idea what is going on here except that the Genie is obviously the ringleader and not to be trusted.
I came home and straightened up my desk.
Writing from: my study. Listening to: “Birdwoman” by Poppy Ackroyd.
I didn’t know what I was seeing. Teal plastic flakes in my hand. I don’t wear teal; I don’t have teal ink. I didn’t know what I was seeing and I heard a soft crackle and the thing I had worn every day for the past nine months broke apart and ended.
It was a great relief that I didn’t see coming. There are so many pieces of me floating away now. I thought they were flotsam but they are jetsam instead.
Facebook, the speakeasy I am trying to forget the passphrase to, smirks in my browser history. Nearly a month later and the twitch starts to calm. Every once in a while, someone notices I’m not there and says something to me about it. I have a little sadness about not knowing things, but I stubbornly shove the sadness in a pocket and wander on.
This diminishing is addictive. I look forward to the semester break for time to sort through and redistribute my stuff. There is too much around; it can’t all be mine. I bought books for years to shore up a deteriorating coastline, and now they are just sandbags.
Three objects I use the most each day are red, not black or purple. I am done with camouflage; I carry tiny bits of fire.