Dust

DUST

“The lint of heroes, the powder of saints, the remnants of stars, grit of meteors. To the Bohemian, dust is a cosmic confectioners’ sugar, softly acting all objects and surfaces in myopic finery. Dust obscures edges and reality, newness and pretense. Dust imbues a room with an aura of unself-conscious enchantment. Dust is egalitarian — all objects are equally blurred.

“The Bohemian understands the historic, poetic and melancholy nature of dust. The the Bohemian, dust is powder from the wings of moths, ash of Vesuvius, cremains of Joan of Arc, atomic fallout, debris of bombed Berlin, soot brushed from the boots of blue-eyed, black-lunged pubescent chimneysweeps in nineteenth-century London. Dust is the dander of a raja’s tiger, the erosion of stones, Aztec temples, sphinxes and palaces, the wayward atoms once part of Pericles, Napoleon, Casanova and Geronimo, the pulverized manuscripts of Debussy, Goethe, Coleridge and Zola, the crumbs of Marie Antoinette’s breakfast, powder from her hair, molecules from Cleopatra’s black eye kohl and residue from John Wayne Gacy’s clown white. Dust is the desiccated petals of poppies and the once flamboyant orchids that grow along the Amazon, it is the spent smoke of opium pipes, the fur of monkeys, literary particles from the Alexandria Library, the dust feathered from the furniture of queens.

“Romantic Bohemians take the old-world view of dust and see it as beggar’s velvet or house moss…

. . .

“…Bohemians are not interested in repetitive tasks; they seek adventure, art, iconoclastic expression. Dusting is a Sisyphean venture. Why bother?”

pp. 90-92, Bohemian Manifesto, a Field Guide to Living on the Edge, by Lauren Stover. Bullfinch Press, c2004.

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About negxl1

Rocks interest me; some fascinate me.
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