tales from an ordinary world

2001-12-01

I sit delicately in one of the local cafes with my fixed shoe in a plastic bag on the floor next to me, awaiting a light meal to help me reintegrate myself into the world from hangover-land.

I can visualize everybody else saying their goodbyes - one after another, from lunchtime to nighttime - but I can't remember my own, when the time finally came.

An afternoon of shuffling objects around, from room to room, beginning another purge, another effort to work out what's important and what isn't. After this (maybe tomorrow ?) there's a whole chest-of-drawers full of old computer bits that needs emptying. Digging through another receptacle just means that I throw a few things away and then find some other place to put the rest, until I get around to cleaning up that place, and inevitably move them back to where they were in the first place, etc. A never-ending story. I should be more brutal about throwing things out, but it's a family trait - my father, his father both hoarded random objects, because they might be useful one day. And besides, everything has a memory that goes with it, reminding me of how I used to be, when life was simpler, or something.