The pressure’s on. Where’s it coming from? Aieee! I haven’t been wound so tight since what, three days ago?
Today I spent the entire day cleaning one small room, the one we call the “saloon” because it has an actual bar of sorts and of course the wood stove and a sofa. The dust was so thick in the corners, it was growing from the bottom up like stalagmites. I couldn’t stand the filthy dusty books and piles of magazines, as well as other junk, so I piled them in the living room next to my desk. (Of course I left a path, what do you think?) Now I’ll have to sort them out, box them up, and pretend there’s room inside the storage unit. As my wife said, “To what purpose?”
“To keep them, of course,” I said, because that was easier than admitting I’d be scared to part with books I haven’t touched in thirty years or more—hell, I just saw one I last opened in ’71! But what if I need to look something up tomorrow, eh? Then what? I can’t be trusted in these matters. You’d find me just as reluctant to throw away old work boots that don’t fit right any more. I must have at least three pairs of those.
Anyway, the saloon feels airy, clean, and sane. Nothing else does, but you have to eat your kibble where you find it.