Ditch Shitter Just Wrote .....

Ditch Shitter Just Wrote .....

Quick word about comments ...

Comments here are 'moderated'. In as much that I have to physically see them and wave them through once you hit Send. So, if ye write a Comment. Post it. Don't see it? No worries. It's just sitting there, waiting for me to come online and find it in my email. I click and your words appear here. Please don't post it several times. Get frustrated and storm off, never to be seen again. It's just a measure I was forced to put into place by doxxers, spammers and other, mentally unstable's.

Monday, April 7, 2014

Tables .....


  I found this interesting. Look.  For the shorter option, it says:

" All furniture communicates meaning - it's unavoidable. And tables invite company.

There are perhaps more kinds of tables than there are of any other type of furniture - kitchen tables, coffee tables, refectory tables, drafting tables, billiard tables, chess tables, table-tennis tables, communion tables, dressing tables, operating tables, library tables, bedside tables, night tables, and side- and end- and sofa tables.

The table is the place where we interact with others - with family, friends, colleagues, rivals - and enemies. "

  And, I don't own a table. Not a single, solitary one. Of any shape, size or description.

  Nearest I get to it is the cluttered little ledge above this key board. Visit me though and you have nothing to do with it. You sit on the fold out " Directors Chair " I keep for guests. Your drink sits on the floor.

  Or, if we're in the kitchen? We stand. And use the freezer top. No tables out there, obviously.

  I wonder what this says about me?


  I have no mirrors either. Well ..... Truth to tell? I do have a mirror. Big, wide thing. It's over the mantle piece. Has two, facing, black swans on it. Ornate, wooden frame.

 Probably hung there for the better part of a century now. Found it there when I came here. I left it there, out of respect for the place and its spirits. 

  I'd like to think it'll still be there, long after I'm gone. It represents our very respect for this place. Its history.

  Can't see jack shit in it. Glancing back over my shoulder at it, it simply presents a grayness. Like an aged saucepan. It's probably so caked in stove grime, or what ever, by now. 

  I don't clean it. Never once have. Because I've no compulsion to use it. Why would I?  Look at my fucking self?!?  That's got to be one fucked up notion.  Leave that shit to Doctors.

  Tables? This little ledge just about has room for my glass. Even in a pub, I can ..... I dunno. I just prefer the bar. And a bit of space.  I don't like tables.
 

  

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