I, Priestess (7)

I, PRIESTESS (7)

With utopia, comes the promise of ascension.

Today we created my stairway to heaven. We pulled up the carpet and underlay. Wrenched out all the staples, prised tack-strips away from the plywood beneath that requires little sanding. (I'm thinking of varnishing or, maybe, just painting.)

Masks still on our faces, we hoovered and swept. Scraped off the detritus (dust stuck to the paint). We lever-ed out cable-tacks left from BT.

I have to admit that it makes me quite happy to bring down a house to its former essentials. (With nothing but brute force and old-fashioned hand-tools.)

Perhaps I've succumbed to the DIY bug. More like, I'm addicted to being a thug 'cos I loved - with full force - this act of disassembling.

But, already, I'm lacking the desire for re-decorating.

I, Priestess (6)

I, PRIESTESS (6)

I wanted to create a utopia. Envisaged a number of grandiose structures.

But, it's structures and things that obscure clear thinking. The material world leaves one drowning.

I'm sinking.

I'm done with re-decorating, renovating, building: with off-the-peg fixtures and ornamentation.

Fed by consumption: banal acquisition.

I'm now in the business of property-deconstruction.