Closed for reorder

Everytime I walk into a room I pick something up from the floor. It is a fantastic strategy. As a result, I am seeing the floor. This is so empowering. I am becoming transfixed by floor.

And it's only encouraged me. In pursuit of control over STUFF I am stashing crap in boxes, on shelves and - wait for it - stuffing STUFF in plastic bags to be taken away.

Sssh!

With that last one I must conduct myself in the guise of a smuggler with a facemask under cover of darkness, passing contraband to silent callers at the door. They must knock, slow, quiet, twice, cover their faces with bat winged cloaks, take secret parcels, and disappear.

This is the only way to remove some of the items from this house. I package them discreetly and slip them away. If I am discovered, the panic will start, the wail go up, But Mama! We need the foam picture alphabet set! The one that Shark chewed when she was three! The one that misses out the letters D, X and G!

You do not need these things, children. I must clear the way, clear out the toddler toys, prepare our ground, my battle lines, lay out the place for your teenage future.

And what a pleasure it is. I can fondly turn that chewed up letter D which I find wedged between floorboard and wall, like a mummified offering for the security and goodwill of our house. I could leave it there, for the occupants to find in ninety years ahead. I won't. Better to get rid of it. You will need the space to stuff your acid stash when the police come beating down the door.

But this feels good, all this emerging space and floor. This is perfect, this life cleansing, clearing up, sweeping away of STUFF.

Come back later, and look at my shelves.