Moms space

		Mom has a room. It's her room. It has not always been her room, several

years ago it was my parents room. Mom and Dad used to sleep there, keep their clothings there, refresh their boundaries there. If you share space with someone it's common to part; organize belongings so they mostly don't interfere - there're always interleaves, mind you, there's always at first glance the impression of an unified entity, but if you look closer, look behind the curtain, sort the individual parts, you'll see some sort of pattern-like structure.
Everything in life is based on structures, that's what most mathematicians like about life.
Now, when my Dad suddenly died, some years ago, the structure broke. The organization broke. Mom would still keep his belongings during the first months, as death alone doesn't mark the end of everything the deceased person has been. But his belongings didn't evolve anymore, they just stayed and deceased themselves. The patterns between moms stuff and dads stuff crippled away, over time mom's stuff took over, just like algae slowly absorb clean beaches. The process itself is even invisible to the human eye; one could inspect the room each day, without notifiying a significant change - and suddenly, after weeks, the whole room looks different.

Now mom's stuff took over, mom took over. The space, previously a symbol of the shared existence between my parents love, wasn't a symbol anymore. Filled with memories and deceasing stuff, hosting more sorrow than ever before, the room evolved, transformed, into moms very own space.
There's still the old bed in the middle of the room, dominating the functional aspect, shaping the rooms value by sheer existence. This bed already existed when I wasn't born, and considering its very important role in the process of my creation adds a special feeling  to it - add least from my point of view.
On the left side one finds a brown/black chest of chambers which, much like the bed, expresses the school of english colonial style quite well. Much like a cherry Tree in summer, the chest is saturated with an astounding amount of all these little odds and ends a women collects over the years. Ranging from earrings over golden watches to bangles, passing rings, purses, makeup, multiple variants of lipstick and the innevitable capsule of glitter, the chest clearly looked like a giant mess, while still preserving the actual feeling of a deep and sophisticated structure behind it. And observing mom as she dresses up, the chest seems to expose a tool-like functionality, enabling her to grip a ring here, fetch a bangle there, nick some makeup from over here and everything so fast that a comparison with really fast typewriters comes to mind.

Above the chest a big mirror is mounted to the wall. Gross golden borders exaggerate it's value, misplacing it in the context of the actual room as even Snow White's evil grandmother wouldn't want to own it, considering it's decadent look. The mirror  hosts  many a kind picture now, lovely nostalgic  debris from those events in space time that had once fulfilled mom's life. Debris from things we look back to if we experience one of our little moments. Terry Pratchett declared hope as mankind's greatest treasure, and these pictures are all about it. Hope doesn't stop in your dreams or imagination, hope doesn't need a reason, hope doesn't even work in a pragmatic way. Even though someone is dead  - the hope of reunion still comes up everytime we think about him, still fills our heart with these warm and fuzzy feelings that are to invoke tears.

So as I watch mom in this area, with all these nostalgic additions and see her using the room much like a tool, I can't but wonder whether we dominate space or whether space dominates us. Do all these nostalgic belongings and small tools define our behaviour, relate to our decisions, or are these expressions result of our behaviour and decisions. Or is it a dualistic process, morphing from state one to state two over the years, like someone who owns a pet and doesn't realize that he automatically rearranges his schedule so it fits with the pets walk & food schedules.
Just like the transformation from my parents room to moms room and just like mom grew older over time, passing those events which are now nothing but a mere black-white-picture on the mirror, this process too can't be defined but still happens.

I think that this is a dualistic process that starts in a state where we dominate the environment, while it ends in a state where our environment totally dominates us.
Starting from this point I'll soon try to interrogate basic human behaviour, and find reasons for those behaviours which can't be described by social interaction alone.