When a Million Teeny Feathers Get Blown Up
What otherwise happens to buildings. To nations. To policies. To people we watch who are on the news. Language of deep sorrow mixed with the emotional weight of catastrophic violence.
But life is also tender and childlike for us.
One definition of Domestic Diminutive: a small indoor mind and body frustration. Soft and in hindsight sort of absurd. Something that can't be controlled or swept out of the picture. Floating. These small things gently mock us.
Something enormous and hidden doesn't always arrive to us as a physical enormity. State events in a moment can become an unexpected small harmless indoor tragedy. Or passive sense of helplessness.
Ridiculous and Devastating sharing the same space.
. . .
Oh no we're so sorry — psychological straw broke the camel's back disaster. Those damn teeny tiny feathers floating everywhere scattering uncontrollable startled mocking these early morning minutes. Everything looming out there — the state, the national weight, the news we can't stop watching — becomes this. A jacket exploding. Down drifting where we stand.
We're both afraid of not recalling the broom's — the hand broom's and dustpan's — location in this underground workspace. Forget about it for now. Get back to today's self-assigned project. Domestic Geography hasn't come up. How bigger things land in smaller rooms. How the enormous shrinks to what floats at eye level.
Don't let this weightless fluff become your enemy.
(brief melancholy pause)
Moisture on lightly wetted paper towels can collect the Down instead of disturbing it. We can take care of that after our discussion. We just found a performance part for this Domestic Geography: a slow prayer or meditation where actors dampen their hands slightly and piece by piece pick up the tiny Down feathers. Tedious but might actually be interesting for others to experience. A durational piece about Entropy and Maintenance.
Wet hands for dampening taut questions. A contemplative torment. A stage performance with as of yet no name.
Additional joy for our protesting friends who came before us or walk beside us ... I rise up ... ties that continue ... my journey is a life in the window ... the first star is here ... I find just enough peace to make my way home ... with sadness for the ones who —
Amongst feathery clouds that drift mercifully away. Never losing it is our Just Way. Hands of diverse colors and tones. Patient and direct. Lovely adjacent quiet garbage. Natural human madness rising to surfaces gentle. Chasing time lost.
This awkward and other unease is also stashed near tender crisis sites.
. . .
This came at dawn and is doing exactly what it should. Let nothing be too big an obstacle for this new day. Spirit — stay in the suspended physical state. Recalling a truth while waiting for the next thing to naturally present itself.
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January 16, 2026
Staying Alive
Author: Oyparaploo
Methodology: Wonderful Garbage
Style: Noir Chanson
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