I proceed meticulously, an archaeologist excavating an army of terra cotta warriors entombed along with their god-emperor, teasing them from the ancient soil with a selection of small trowels, scoops and brushes, sending the debris through a sifting screen and taking calipers to the likelier bits lest some telling detail be lost.
In the real world I'm filling up 30 gallon plastic bags with crap nobody wants and stacking donations in the garage for pickup.
Understanding this has not so far changed my behavior.
But it is a tomb I'm working in.
Empty, occupant a cypher, nothing left but a lattice of intentional debris collected over a lifetime. Every stack of magazines I haul to the garage, every container of spoiling food I throw away, every photo album carried off in the trunk of the car is another tiny stone pried from the mosaic of her life, the only testament she left.
Trying to understand the picture as I disassemble the thing and cart it away in pieces seems the least tribute I can offer.
Or it could be I'm not an archaeologist at all.
Things going missing, floating through the air, an unseen force loose between the four walls trailing anarchy in its wake.
Maybe I'm a poltergeist.
Then which one of us is doing the haunting?
Give me your eyes
I need sunshine
Give me your eyes
I need sunshine
Your blood, your bones, your voice, and your ghost
Wolf Parade
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