Dirt

Everybody thinks they’re above the dirt, but if everybody is above it, who’s going to clean the dirt? Who’s going to come down to its level and clean it? Who’s going to dare sit with the dirt, as their equal, and wipe it off? The dirt usually doesn’t just disappear: it’s rubbed off, mop-scrub-rinse-cleanse-wash-brush-purge-sweep-dust-swabbed down by hands and nails and calluses. Its story doesn’t end there, however. The dirt doesn’t just cease to exist because of our laborious attitude. It’s usually transformed, hidden, segregated, but the dirt persists. It travels from one place to the next, much like us, looking for a place to call home. But there isn’t much it can do when its existence isn’t welcomed anywhere. Its life is to pack, unpack, pack, unpack, pack, “did you unpack?” Pack. Its life is endless waiting lines, begging for temporary shelter, before it moves to the next city — and the next. There is prayer, there is uncertainty. A lot of the time is play pretend, acting. Wearing costumes and makeup to look more appealing, before it’s evicted from whatever place it’s in. But the dirt persists. Its life is also transformation, rebirth.

Dirt, where are you going next?