The amount of wonderful writing on OS has grown exponentially. Lord, it wearies me. I don't have time to read it all. I just don't. I can't remember the last time I dusted. I'm working on a business plan for a children's archaeological dig site. I'll sell tickets for attractions like: * Dustbunny DNA * Clutter stratigraphy * Excavate and classify an earring back * Discover and preserve the button from my gray sweater and record the provenience in your field notes! * The entry fee would be a pittance, but the aggregate profit could be re-invested, say by purchasing small pith helmets and a new box of swiffer things, which I could then dole out to the little diggers for an additional fee... Ah, the apple really doesn't fall far from the tree.
I'm all jacked up on Spring. Every moment I spend indoors I'm jonesing to be with the tiniest bees I've ever seen in the crabapple blossoms, dizzy like children diving into clouds of pink cotton candy at the fair. It's all happening out there. On this green earth. Which is not "the world". I want to leave the world, that territory of notion. I want to roll and hum in clover. I want to spread like buffalo grass. I want to rush and fall like cataracts.
Forgive me. Forgive me if I don't read your posts, or if I leave a lame comment, or only rate. It's Spring: I'm afflicted, I'm addicted, I'm gone.
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Comments
i like the idea of pith helmeted archaeologists uncovering buttons.
i am missing a tiny earring.
Please, do not bother with dusting on my account. I would much rather you write.
When you write things like "I want to roll and hum in clover" or "I want to rush and fall like cataracts" my heart aches at the beauty of it all.
Your words slay me and imprison me and allow me not to beg for mercy. You are a poet disguised as a blogger.
Enjoy the beauty of spring - I'd rather bake or create than dust myself.
~R~
It's heartening to see how many of you fall into the Quentin Crisp camp of housekeeping. But the dust here has reached critical mass: I fear a landslide. And still, no matter how much loud funkadelic music I play, and despite my belief that the swiffer is an invention on a par with electricity, I can't seem to make myself dust.