The room was being emptied for something new. I dumped files, photographs, cameras, perfume bottles, books, CDs, everything that the draws vomited out in bags. And then I had to find space for those bags. Some are held precariously on stools, some against walls, some inside cupboards dumped over clothes. It all seems senseless because when I open those bags I won't know what to find where. I do not understand the purpose behind emptying anything when you merely change gears or move on or shift. Where is the emptiness?
The room looked crowded with walls and the ceiling and the wardrobe and the forlorn desk with the PC covered like a delightful secret behind a lacy cover. I lay down on the bed and wanted to feel light. I could not. Those bags in various places haunted me. Today I needed the cheque book. I looked and looked and found it in one of those hold-alls clinging to some cable wire. I wonder what was being connected.
The day arrived for the fresh layers of paint and no one turned up. No one wanted to do anything to my room. And when he arrived rather late, I said forget it. But I did not replace anything. I liked to see the painting behind the dining table…it is of a woman with a faraway look. Now she is propped against a chair getting the whiff of food under the weight of glass. I think she will leap out and hit her head against it. I could be wrong. I often am.
Last night my table fan that was propped up on the CPU fell. It broke. Its blades whirred with a Jarring sound before it gave up. I tried yanking at the wire near its neck, but it only snaked out further. It was a very un-fan like thing to do. I poked my fingers into the mesh to see if it would move; it made guttural noises.
It lies there now and won’t work. Heat smiles. Filling in.
Nothing was emptied.