Where does all the dust come from?
Honestly, don’t write and tell me. I probably don’t really want to know. Someone once said it is the dead skin from our bodies in which case, since it can’t possibly be all from me, it means I am sharing this space with all who’ve gone before – and I’m sure there have been many.
Dust filters off the ceiling, magically appears on second shelves sheltered from above and even floats through the air with the greatest of ease.
I vacuum, dust, mop, do whatever it takes to stay ahead of it, but it is a losing battle. The dust is always ahead a hundred or million to one.
I don’t know much about science, but I wonder if I reconstituted all this dust if I could talk with the people whose DNA it might contain?
That might be its only redeeming value.
Imagine. A little dab of water, some magic growth hormones and presto change oh, a blast from the past and there stands the first person who ever lived here! We could spend the evening visiting, or perhaps playing Scrabble, then I could just suck him up in the vacuum cleaner and be done with him!
The next time I might try the dust from the closet, or maybe the north corner of the bedroom! It could be an ever-changing list of disposable companions on dull evenings. I might even be able to market it if some of them turned out especially nice.
For sale: one spoonful of dust just mix with enclosed packet and spend the evening with (a librarian, or classical guitarist, or even an eight year old boy) All you need is water and a vacuum to clean up after yourself.
Scary to think of what boredom might create.
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