Bombing afghanistan. Jakarta on red alert. I have a day where I feel weak. I describe the feeling as being a mote of dust. A mote of dust as the magnetized duster goes by, hoping to be pulled up into that dirty moving mass, where all the dust together seems so secure and powerful. If I don’t get sucked into that great dust ball, I may very well be swept away from other dust, cast into some air current to a pristine, dustless corner where there is nothing but subsistence, and nervous solitary subsistence.

The great UN/IGNO duster is swaying about quite wildly, often missing its target completely, not picking up nearly the amount of dust it needs to justify its movements. So my chances of getting picked up are entirely unknown. But my chances of being tossed about far from comfy duster fronds seem greater.

I am a dust particle! Funny that I become this, after trudging miles everyday between locations in a column of brown-grey gutter dust. Hazel Motes. Kingfisher, bright blue.

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