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 |   Thoughts destined to be washed away by the tides of life. |
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I've been studying my cover photo for a while now, and it seems to me that it is more than just a photo of what is there that can be seen, more than just three white rocks stacked on a beach. It contains an important question about the future, about what happens long after the photographer has gone. What will happen to our pile of stones when the tide comes in? Will it topple or has the architect built this structure at a safe distance? I don't know what will happen to these words that I stack here on the sand. They may prove safely distant, or they may be swallowed up by a rush of self-doubt. They may be here for a season. They may lose their balance and be scattered by the shoreline, or be hidden away under shifting sands. Perhaps someday, the tides of life will reclaim them. Or maybe that's just a bunch of poetic, romantic nonsense. After all, this is just a blog. |
| I have a form of mental illness. I don't know what category it falls under. Perhaps it is a neurosis or some kind of obsessive compulsive disorder or maybe it's just some hidden well of hope that bubbles up to the surface now and again, but it's definitely not normal. I know this because all those around me say it's not normal. See, I have this need to rearrange the furniture. Not constantly, just frequently. Maybe three or four times a year, tops. I can't say when the urge strikes or what causes it to strike, but once the thought of rearrangement sparks in my soul, I cannot stop thinking about it. I appear to be watching TV, or typing on my laptop, or even calmly knitting round and round as the leg of the sock on my needles lengthens, but what is really going round and round is the furniture on the imaginary floor plan in my head. Normal people tell me everything is fine as it is. I know that they really just hate to be bothered with all the fuss when the furniture starts to rotate round the room. And no one welcomes the uncovering of secret sins hiding beneath the formerly stationary seating. Now the dropped wrappers and odd socks come to light, covered in dust and cat hair. It's all futile, really. The truth is that I hate all my furniture and the room is uncommonly boxy with doors and windows in exactly all the wrong places so that there is no good or right place for a long sofa, or the right angle for the chair so that the television is well in view or even a spot where the light from the window or the lamp is not glaring off the TV screen. Still, deep down inside, I harbor a tiny hope that if I just keep moving the furniture around, I may accidentally hit upon the arrangement that makes it all agree with each other and nestle into a logistic harmony with the room's construction. Until that happens, I am doomed to keep it all revolving. |
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Not quite what I meant. "Pufts" was a sidelong reference to the famous dog show, Crufts