fragments, nonsense

Choreverie

There’s order in doing housework. Whether it is vacuuming, doing the dishes, cleaning up the sofa or folding clothes. There’s something sensible about it. Almost tangible. You put socks up to dry, boxers, wonder if the clothesline will manage to hold. There’s nothing more than that; weight, strength, time. You take another, a pair of jeans. Upside down, and you grab them by the ankles, or where your ankles should be. Even like that, there’s something meaningful. Logical. You wonder if someone should do the same for you; grab you by the ankles and put you up somewhere to dry out. But you’re not wet. You’re not. This is where sense leaves; the clothes need their place up there, they’ve deserved it. You haven’t.

The woosh noise of the vacuum cleaner is like a melody. It ebbs and flows and comes and goes and it takes everything. Time, dust, hairs, all traces that you’ve been there, that she’s been there too. All traces of smiles, pains and backs hurting, memories of things unsaid and things that can’t be unsaid. No, that it doesn’t take. There’s something about vacuuming a room that you can’t quite grasp. It’s like a fresh start but without completely starting fresh. It’s like pressing the reset button, but halfway through it, deciding to stop. Although you would have to be really quick to do just that. But that’s another thing you’re not; you’re not really quick. You’re barely quick as it is, just a normal speed type of person. Some might even say you’re a bit slow sometimes. And the ebbs and flows usually get you because of that, but there’s nothing else you can do. Just wait for another woosh.

A tiny spider seems to be curling up in a corner right above your head. There’s nothing wrong with spiders, except they generally scare the heck out of you. And out of most people. Even the smallest ones, the tiny ones like this one above you; they all scare you. But you decide there’s nothing to do about it. If it wants to settle there, then who the heck are you to state otherwise. You’re no god, you’re just you. You just want to be welcoming. And if it’s not going to be people, known, unknown, friends, enemies, you might as well start small. Tiny even. You look up and hope everything is okay, although it seems to be really hot in the room. Do spiders get too hot? Too cold? Do spiders feel they need to clean up their webs? There’s really no way of knowing that, and you are sure that is not okay yet to speak to a spider. However tiny.

Cleaning the windows should be done more than once in a while. And yet you seem to forget it everytime. Which in itself is a totally strange thing. Windows are everywhere, just like people. And yet you seem to have made your peace with that. You walk with your head slightly bowed, you listen to music on your ever-growing old fashionned device, and you don’t notice them at all. They really are everywhere. Tall ones and smaller ones, and clean ones and a lot of dirty ones. You wonder what it would take for you to stop and just contemplate one of them. Or two or three. Is there anything that would draw you out of your usual reverie? Probably not, let’s face. That’s the way you’re always going to be. But you decide to be more focus, to see; to really see. To pay attention. You’ll take more care of the windows; those around you, at least.

There’s a knock on the door and the broom gets out of your hand. Clack. The sense in doing housework is disturbed, put on hold and you don’t really get why. The eyehole doesn’t reveal you anything, it never does. You open the door on nothing, it’s always like that. You close it and look at the eyehole again; does it really show what’s outside? How can you trust it? There’s a reason they call it a Judas, you think. What an odd name to give to a part of a door. Especially since the whole door doesn’t have a name. It would be like naming your arm Steve, and you yourself, the person you are, the being you represent, not bearing any names. What a strange thought. You ponder on that for a moment and grab the broom laying on the ground like the body of a victim. You can already see the white lines starting to draw out around the body. There’s an eerie sense about it all that makes your thoughts go crazy, just about how a man would feel without a name. Crazy.

You imagine what it would be like going through life without any name. Without being anybody. A lot of people say that when you live in big cities, huge ones, you tend to become anonymous. Nobody. Nobody of any worth, at least. Until you get home to a loved one, to a cat, or both. But this is different. A man with no name does not exist. And yet a man with no name could somehow be closer to being free. This gets your attention, and for some reason, you drop the sponge in the green basin. Gravity. What a terrible burden. It immediately gets soaked in, bubbles jump on it and devour it, make it their own. You’ve got no chance in heck against gravity, it’ll always get you, one way or another. You have to keep your feet firmly on the ground, and there’s nothing you can do about it.

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