Crystal Hurdle
“Sparking”
I borrow a library copy of Dafoe’s Journal of a Plague Year
had gotten rid of my own annotated paperback months back
when death decluttering
because tales of infection rate and brutal death
strangely did not spark joy
But now needs must as I
repurpose old things
I regret the last box donated to Big Brothers
what I might have used
takeout chopsticks, fibreboard furniture, toddler toys, bedraggled jockey shorts, stilettos, books
at least thirty years old,
a dented Dutch oven
how I could have would have banged on it
at the seven o’clock cheer
societally sanctioned rage
anything to get me out of the house
now I shiver in the carport
my family warm and away inside
weave old fabric through a neighbour’s abandoned
chairs, only wire frames left
the cane eaten away
we need more chairs so that the family can party
with other people, thank God, other people
in the driveway when summer comes, if?
reprovisioning now both art and craft
satisfying frugality
war measures
and it gets me out of the house
Marie Kondo says when downsizing and tidying
look at all items from one category together
but how to gather all of one item
with everyone tele-working
each room an office
how can each thing have one “home”?
and a domicile is no longer home,
but incarceration with frantic family
Solitary confinement too hard on criminals
now a discarded practice to be wished for
I’d pick it up in a flash in a thrift shop
when one opens in a new normal
laptops cables papers school packs multiply on every surface
duplication, triplication, all family members to use all
we’re all in this together
fuck, all of us
Marie says sentimental items to be saved to last
if we last that long
too bad we can’t restrict stress
to a single closet in a single room
too bad we can’t restrict family
quarantine and social distance away from them
home is where the hard is
now in these times of quarantine
when isolating with family
for stress reduction
Marie advises us to declutter
I think of the chopsticks, the stiletto heels
already discarded on her say-so
If I’m not too sentimental
I’d love to bring those bayonets back
how penetrating in skin so soft
desperate times call for desperate measures
war measures, so tidy
life-changing
sparking joy