All writers secretly envision their elegant words in well-worn volumes, decorating the dusty shelves of future libraries. In my library, which is a desk, a chair and two shelves in the corner of our den, I hardly notice the dust, especially if I’ve mislaid my glasses again. My friends and family complain that my dust bunnies, like tumbling tumbleweeds, will eventually push them out the door. So I try to convince everyone that dust bunnies make excellent pets. Happily, dust bunnies are low maintenance. They also multiply. Almost anyone can grow lots of dust bunnies, and very quickly. If, however, your dust bunnies over-populate, I understand that vacuum cleaners make excellent dust bunny birth control, not that I would personally threaten the little creatures, not in my dust bunny sanctuary. Their habitat is only disturbed in mild weather, when I open my windows and doors to the breeze that gently encourages the bunnies to drift from their homes under the furniture and playfully roll across my floors.
I have a high degree of tolerance for dust in all forms. I have two experiments under scientific observation. One is concerning the gravity-defying question of what upholds the dust on my walls. The other is a continuing experiment about how dust on houseplants will affect their photosynthesis. My theoretical question is how long I can wait before I must put all my plants in the bathtub and give them a shower?
Of course, I haven’t neglected dust in the field of art because there’s a smiling face drawn on my window. It enjoins the viewer to “wash me!” And anyone can see, incised in the dust on my coffee table, the autograph of a future celebrity, my child. Perhaps I should save his signature for posterity?
Dust is the stuff of the ages. Most dust seems harmless, but can you imagine the past of that dust speck hiding in your corner? Could that mote have fallen into eye of a sabre-toothed tiger? Perhaps it’s the very speck that caused him to lose a battle with a mastodon. And that aggressive bunch of fluff marching across my carpet? Ah, Napoleon! There’s a collection of microscopic dust and rubble by my bookcase. Could it contain the microns of some ancient writer’s library?
Well, perhaps my own writing is ahead of its time, if not its dust. The keyboard of my computer is suspiciously clean. My mother-in-law is coming today and I don’t think she’ll buy a word of this.
