Wednesday, June 10, 2009

In this beautywood

I am no judge, trust me. I am not one who makes sound decisions and then watches as other people flounder. Yet I think at times people whom I am close to have concluded that I will determine whether or not their choices are good or bad.
I'm not talking about children, because that's all a mixed up bag or wires, hair and all sorts of nasty stuff that goes beyond the normal judgmental criteria. That changes hopefully when they are adults, but for now anything they do pretty much is up for interpretation.
My parents are homeless, not in the figurative sense like they are between houses. There is not another place yet for them to hang their hats or put their crap/crap loads of stuff that used to fit into a giant Cleveland house, somehow fit into a small California house and now is in a storage facility.
These people are in their eighties. I cannot image the displacement they are feeling, especially as attached to their belongings they have come to be over the years. What defines us, is it our stuff, our environment? Let's wait and see, shall we.


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