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Mikey Dust

It’s been quite awhile since I’ve moved my stuff, and far longerer since the trip has been more than a few blocks. As I’ve shaved off the superfluous, I realize that I have a few boxes of things that I have come to feel would “Mikey-ize” any space. I’m not sure if these belongings are still all my taste, but in my mind it’s better to hold on to what I have than to try to replace it. Sunken cost and all that.

Nested in layers between the kitchen starter kit padded with bandages are the bibbles and bwabs scattered on surfaces around my home. Marbles and meeples and tiny art and huge art. Glass and clay and chrome and ceramic. Wrapped and layered and stacked and condensed down into a bouillon of my physical existence.

I suppose the boxes are a great metaphor for me; in their aggregate they have a corporealness of their own. A curated exhibition.

It’s mostly art. Glass and clay and instruments and paint. Mostly from people I’ve known. Howard’s etching and Juli’s little lizard in my zoo diorama along with Rachele’s elephant and Sibila’s tiger. A container of collage cuttings and magic markers and glue.

In the end, all that is me will scatter, and all of my Mikey dust will settle into other places. Maybe the smatterings of things I’ve accumulated will someday become someone else’s dust, and not just become more junk and garbage on the pile. Who can tell? Who knows? Better minds than me have pondered such things.

But as I sprinkle my Mikey dust into the density of containers, I’m reminded that seasons change. I’ve changed.

I don’t have a lot of regrets in life, and I do wish I had captured more of the wacky ideas I’ve long forgotten. There’s nothing I can do about all that Mikey dust that’s slipped through my fingers. All I can do is gather more.

To new scoops!

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