I shredded some papers a month ago, filling a garbage bag half way with the remains. The bag is on one of the busiest spots in this apartment, in a certain corner of the kitchen by the sink and the coffee gear. Assuming I will shred more papers I left the bag there without tying it shut. With it lying open the shreds come out on account of me stepping around and on the bag. One by one shreds have made their way around the kitchen floor and as far out as the piano and the bedroom door. From the starting point of the garbage bag in the kitchen the shreds paint a picture of the paths I walk most often. So, too, do the dirted trails and and stains on the wood floor. The dusty surfaces illustrate the surfaces on which I rarely walk.
I am reminded of a time my mother humiliated me, or at least attempted to, over path I dug into some of the carpeting in the house. It had to have been there for years already but one day she suddenly noticed that a trail of dirt had been burned into the carpet, a trail which led from the front door of the house to my seat at the dinner table. I remember thinking it was kind of cool but I would not have been able to say so given the deliberate and escalating display of anger people display when they know they are wrong but have raised the stakes too high to turn back.
Are human interactions like the shreds of paper? Do they spread? I thought of that after talking on the phone with a friend in Montana, someone I’ve known for about 25 years. We always have good conversations. He’s a very high-minded, lettered individual with no shortage of informed anecdotes and observations. I’ve had this thought concerning other people, so it’s not new for me, but after the last time we spoke I and the call ended I found myself asking who is that person? It’s not so much that I thought I needed more details on his background and existence. I was thinking more about what this person does with the entirety of his time not on the phone with me. That is not to suggest we talk on the phone all that much. I just wanted to know if our interactions populate his conversations with others, and if the ideas and comments that emerge between us make their way into his vernacular. Do our encounters spread as do the paper shreds?
There is a metaphor somewhere in here but I’m having trouble finding it.
I am hearing the music again, but now it is during the day. I think it is an interaction between the freezer humming and the box fan blowing nit whatever it is it sounds clear, but not as clear as when I hear it at night when trying to sleep.
