I just really, truly, with a passion hate dust. It’s everywhere, it is there ten seconds after you dusted. In my pen holder you can tell which pens I use the least, for they accumulate dust. You can tell which books I didn’t touch by the layer of dust on it. Heck, you can probably tell when I finished that book by the thickness of said layer. And worst is, while I hate it there, I also hate dusting. So it’s a constant war between what I hate more, and to which will I therefor succumb.
Basically, this entry is me trying to get back on track. It might be a very short attempt, since we might get evicted in about five weeks, since next month they threaten to cut of all of our water due to 300 euro debt that we can’t afford (when the choice is medicine that your parents need to live and bills – it’s not much of a choice, but you can help us out if you feel like via donation button on the right side of this blog, it’s that big blue and orange one, since wordpress doesn’t allow any decent methods of button creation). So let’s just try again to talk about nothing, as I used to do when it wasn’t yet a job, and when I wasn’t (sort of, willingly) forced to do it.
While pushing things around, preparing for dusting, I realized a thing. I have a secret stash of books. Once upon a time I took a dust-jacket off a book before sending it out to a friend (she never received it, it got lost in the mail, so I was left with that dust-jacket collecting dust). Today that dust jacket contains three smaller books, and makes a fake front. Basically I just don’t want people to read their backs and freak out, so I hide them undercover. And they’re dusty…
I also realized I have a box full of little things that I planned to send out to my friends. As time went by, my plans of packages dwindled until finally I no longer thought about it, being unable to add anything, being unable to afford the shipping, or, often, even the secure envelope. It’s odd to find it now, odd to think how much those people meant for me, how every day they were on my mind, how seeing some book made me think of them and whether they’d like it. I wonder if anyone thinks or thought of me as much. Doesn’t feel like most of the time, to be honest. And some of them have absolutely certainly forgotten I exist.
As for what I do when I don’t try to beat myself up, poison myself, cut myself, hurt myself, or work on underpaid projects, keeping my teeth clenched in the face of impending eviction and hate, is: I craft. Some time ago I wrote in my facebook that I’d accept any unwanted jewelry, even the broken stuff (heck, broken stuff is even better), and one person actually packed me up a bunch of just pure wonder. I was given jewelry to recycle before, of course, hence the idea, and in general for this thought I am grateful to a friend from Bulgaria. But this package was exceptional.
First of all, it reached me battered to the point where I had to keep the moist, chewed up, and scratched up rag that had semblance of her address on it, just as a souvenir, because I’ve never seen an envelope downgraded so hard. Second, it was packed into a plastic bag, with leftovers of this envelope, and sort of a note from post, with vague “oh, so… well… this happened… we’re sorry, probably” in it. But the contents were all nice and safe, and I hope it contained all it had to contain. There was a gorgeous head-piece, a fantastic necklace, random bits and pieces, and this amazing bracelet from what I think is sea-shell pieces, cut to fit together. Bit by bit I’m undoing it all, trying to put pieces together in my mind. I intend to make a little collection called “Red Regals”, for it seems collections sell best.
Next time, hopefully, I will show you the Halloween candy I received, a goth tomato I ate, and tell you of the week we spent on a dozen of eggs.