Looking out the window of my overly-air-conditioned kitchen, in the land with the largest carbon-footprint per capita (in the world...if every person in the world used the amount of natural resources that those who live in Qatar do, the planet would be used in 4 years); it is here that I can see the date-palm sheltering a large garbage can which is hidden from eyesite.
The garbage can itself hides the garbage within, but I suppose even seeing the encasement for rubbish is beneath us, and so it is enclosed by a stucco housing. But here lies the magic. The cans are never emptied during morning hours. I thought at first this was due to the heat of the day and so the workers would begin very early in the day so they could end before noon. But throughout the year has proven that even when workers remain through all of the lighted hours, they will remove that which we do not want to possess any longer, that which mares are sterility of clean-dome, that which we no longer consider ourselves steward over. It must be beamed-up with no eyes injured at the removal.
Where is my house-elf today? Where is that man who scrubs my windows on precarious rusted ladders and who gathers the few leaves fallen in the back yard in a wheelbarrow that is entirely rotted out? Where is my short cleaner wearing a borrowed jumpsuit ready to serve with a smile? I am searching the palm tree guarded garbage bin for him.
There is a spot between the parking area for my neighbor and me, where you can put anything. Broken furniture, whole furniture for that matter, old tires, entire trees and it will disappear. We have tried to put large items and watch with spyglasses out the upper windows to see when the worker-elves take it away. But they are not to be seen. It is by magic they work. Magic that makes us all believe that the 5,000 water bottles we chuck and the clothing we throw, and the diapers we detest have disappeared.
But where is the other end of this wormhole? And do my elves get to wear their own owned clothing there?
The garbage can itself hides the garbage within, but I suppose even seeing the encasement for rubbish is beneath us, and so it is enclosed by a stucco housing. But here lies the magic. The cans are never emptied during morning hours. I thought at first this was due to the heat of the day and so the workers would begin very early in the day so they could end before noon. But throughout the year has proven that even when workers remain through all of the lighted hours, they will remove that which we do not want to possess any longer, that which mares are sterility of clean-dome, that which we no longer consider ourselves steward over. It must be beamed-up with no eyes injured at the removal.
Where is my house-elf today? Where is that man who scrubs my windows on precarious rusted ladders and who gathers the few leaves fallen in the back yard in a wheelbarrow that is entirely rotted out? Where is my short cleaner wearing a borrowed jumpsuit ready to serve with a smile? I am searching the palm tree guarded garbage bin for him.
There is a spot between the parking area for my neighbor and me, where you can put anything. Broken furniture, whole furniture for that matter, old tires, entire trees and it will disappear. We have tried to put large items and watch with spyglasses out the upper windows to see when the worker-elves take it away. But they are not to be seen. It is by magic they work. Magic that makes us all believe that the 5,000 water bottles we chuck and the clothing we throw, and the diapers we detest have disappeared.
But where is the other end of this wormhole? And do my elves get to wear their own owned clothing there?
