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So, I just moved out of my apartment/temple/artstudio of sixteen years, because my left knee cripped out from prolonged wear and tear that would not stand a chance of healing, if I continued to try negotiating the two flights of stairs (crutches or no crutches). I had to crash at my sister's formerly wrongfully foreclosed house which she faught and won to keep, now one room devoted to yours truly, arteest, who hung large paintings in small areas to create a new private temple with a crazy German shepherd dog that plays hours with a metal pan for his meaning in life.
Sunday I hauled out a make-do vacuum cleaner with a torn cloth bag that holds the paper replacement bag, fired it up to neaterize my now spic and span heaven, only to have the bag blow up, sending a Mount Vesuvius size dust cloud all about the room, all over my newly-hung, mint-condition paintings.
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