Carpeting

MUSING 

When there’s so much……. so much…… I’m wondering if perhaps it isn’t the work of our days to…. let me start again… 

but with what words? you see the words carry meaning. If they’re clever or cleverly placed there can be multiple

meanings. But often we strive for clarity, even when clarity isn’t anywhere on the shelves. So then it’s just striving...for other? for a way out? for change? for flour?

Change isn’t always what we want. Acceptance? Maybe it’s sentimental and we want the thing to be what it was, even if it was never that. Or we want it to stay still so that we can rest in it for a moment or study it or try it on or wash it… Is the striving an effort in the direction of stability, asking things to settle down where they are? And when they do, because we all have magic powers, and everything is sitting there on the rug, asking to be fed - that’s far too much!!

So what is it - how is it that there is too much? Why isn’t it just enough? Do three bears live here? Too many tabs, too many feelings, too much good, too much bad - is that why Durga has so many arms? Who says

And now there’s too many words and not enough time, ah yes, there we go… not enough time…. or money… Well isn’t that interesting. Scarcity lies there - whereas everywhere else is spilling over, baskets, buckets, drawers, dreams, landscapes, buildings, sidewalks, houses, wagons. 

I was going to say the work might be to find a balance. But balance.. an organizing principle, then….. the work is to get it done and off to the side…. but there isn’t ever done…nor is there a side.. something else comes in…with corners.  I’m in trouble… within minutes I’ll be kneeling at the ganges with a pitcher, wondering if it’s clean enough. I don’t have enough drawers or chairs or rugs or shelves or houses or days. Who says? 


Do I get to say? 

I’m afraid I could go on like this and then there’d be even less time and nothing in boxes and no ribbons. An audience, a miasma, an ocean, a puddle. All at our fingerprints… finger tips… 


A lot of these things are dreams - we can’t hold out an arm…. 


or we could, we might


it depends 


on the

system. 


Not the system out there - the one in here - that I swim around in my whole life. The one I am learning to live with, or is learning to live with me - am I to say who I am? I may have bias as to how it turns out and certain expectations and cloaks that get hung up on statues, torn as I turn… So then there’s a synthesis. It’s 12 signs and an infinite number of combinations - at every moment. A lot to drink in, a lot to find homes for… After some time lying in the steamer trunk in the attic we can lift the lid and there’s something there with feathers…. 


Occupancy, she called it. That’s a word. And a feeling. 


and a place to be 


with limbs.