Right now, in the late middle of my demolition, the dust is
everywhere. Plaster dust is probably the worst of all the dusts,
because it's so fine and has almost no weight, which means it
hangs in the air for a long time before it finally decides to
settle. Hours after I've torn down an ancient plaster wall or
ceiling, a thick white cloud still hovers over the old pine
floors like fog in an ice rink. Plaster dust slips through
cracks. It digs tunnels. I've found plaster dust deep inside my
ears; there's a small white explosion of it behind the screen on
my cell phone, a tiny celestial body, somehow trapped under
glass. It doesn't smell too bad — not like the black plastic
leftovers from a cut-through shitter pipe or the disintegrated
newspapers that were shoved into the walls for insulation — but
plaster dust tastes bad, like chalk, and it's murder on your
eyes. I'll wake up the morning after spending yet another day
smashing down my house and little balls of pulp will have worked
their way to the corners of m