Drifting

“There's one thing I really don't understand about this predicament,” whispered Bob.

“What's that?” said Alice looking furtively out from their hiding place.

“Well earlier it had drifted over near the teapots, but just a moment later it was bothering the potted plants. Did that make any sense to you?”

Alice sat in silence, having no reply to give.

Bob didn't expect the lack of response, and so an uncomfortable time passed before he continued his narrative.

“Earlier it was drifting smoothly past the edge of the windowsill, and then it turned and turned again just above the kitchen counter. That was strange. Do you think we will be OK here in the bread bin? Perhaps we should close the hatch for a while, just to be safe.”

They sat in stillness, observing. Time lost all meaning. Empires rose and fell and countless generations passed—or so it seemed to the both of them in the drawn-out stillness after the fallen paper pieces and before the drifting eventually continued.

“It caught my eye near the salt and pepper pots,” said Bob, “and then again near that wilting basil plant, and as it hovered amid the old half-pieces of mouldering limes. We could risk the climb back down under the fridge where we can report back to the others.”

Despite their circumstances, Alice was surprised to hear such talk, especially as the day was early and the outside birds had only just begun to engage in their morning cacophony.

The first rays of the sun cast a bright line across the kitchen floor. There was surely more scavenging to be done.

“How far will it go today, do you think?” she asked, “If you're that uneasy, we can call it an emergency and summon someone to help us out of this predicament.”

“Oh fuss and bother.” said Bob, “Maybe if we are patient it will probably just get stuck in one corner doing something incomprehensible for a while, like last time, and then it will just drift on out of here into the next room. We should be safe.”

* * *

I am drifting through my day again. I find myself occupying the kitchen in the early sunlight. My companion is a fresh cup of tea. I survey the scene.

The dry windowsill plants call for help, but then I find only a leaky container, accidentally pierced it seems by a knife jammed in the drawer. Frustration is a unintentional spanner lodged in the flawed mechanism of my mind.

Some days are constructed from unforeseeable delays. I linger by a wilted basil plant perfecting the incantations that will bring it water.

Peripherally I am aware of secretive words that spill intermittently from the couple hiding in the bread bin. I know about such things. I dawdle by the kitchen counter and do not interfere. I begin opening long ignored envelopes on the table.

Paper flows through my hands, but suddenly I am captured by a devastating letter that now flutters to the floor. I stand frozen. I am blindly perceiving only the teapots with their battered metal lids and arching spouts, now a superficial presence holding my attention. Eons pass in turbulence before the resolution of a dubious answer forms itself piece by piece in the wierd time of my imagination. The salt and pepper pots excite dangerous dreams

As usual my morning motions are attracting attention. I think of elaborate actions that will confuse the tiny observers stationed near the knife set, but instead I drift on from place to place, attention inward.

Another day like no other. Another day of being observed, and another day of drifting, just like you, my reader, between intentions signifying nothing to others. So it goes on with life extending itself: an ambiguous painting, maybe leading somewhere, sharpened again and again into new possibilities.