On Cleaning

I've had a real urge to purge lately. On the surface I think I seem somewhat organized; I have a small apartment and it really makes it necessary to put things away. But I know there is lots of crap hidden in closets and corners in nice Ikea patterned boxes that I need to get to.

I always have the same problem when I deep clean-where to start? I like to use the "economy of movement" approach to everything (probably from spending so much time in a kitchen) but in this case, with so many goals I want to accomplish I'm getting bogged down in the details. No surprise.

In my planning of the big purge, I've also decided to rearrange my furniture. This will require me to unload my china cabinet. I don't know why I have the damn thing. Well, I do, its an antique and was my first purchase at an auction. Its a Hepplewhite style, and its great for compact spaces. I guess what I really mean is I don't know why I keep what's in it.

I have a large collection of china and crystal that I never use, and probably never will. Back in my early twenties when I was nurturing a deep urge to nest, I bought all these pieces in hopes to be ready for the "big day". I had visions of living in an old two and a half story house that still had a creaky dumbwaiter. I would throw fabulous dinner parties and use my simple, but elegant white ware to serve on.

Ha.

Many years later, I often toy with parting with all of it (but for the wine glasses, which are necessary to life). Then a friend will come over and I will pull out the teapot, and she will gasp at its beauty, and I will feel all Martha Stewartlike and competent. So, I guess I have to keep that.  And the soup terrine is so lovely-a shame to let it go. Lets not mention how the service all fits together so when you look down at you see a subtly blooming flower. Sigh. I'm never going to get rid of it. I know it. I'll be 80 living in my apartment with all my books and china looming around me. But it will all look fabulous!

So there is art to hang, furniture to move, silk pillows to lay out in carefully orchestrated patterns. I must get to it. It's important to complete this constructed reality so I feel ready to face all the crap yet to come.

The Electoral Disease...

Me:
It's kind of like a bad rash...

Him:
like the Quebec Nationalists

Me:
no, thats like herpes. You think it's gone then IT COMES BACK

Morning

I wake.

It's a quarter before the alarm
breaks fitful sleep.

I stretch-
then remember that
I'm not alone here.

Quietly
softly
I wriggle from tether
and creep to the bathroom...

this floor creaks.

I laid it all out there
the blubber
the penchant for
unmatched socks-
the scars
the lined up vials on the counter...

the space mask
the unwashed dishes
the magazines under the chair...

the book was found and unmentioned even.

I stood with arms crossed-defiant
door slightly ajar-waiting

and yet...

I declined to talk about it-
tired of talk-
of introspection-

so instead we laughed
and ate the ice cream I made
and listened to that awful crackle
his shoulder makes when he turns it just so--

and the light turned to dark
and the dark turned to light
and I remembered all the things I thought I forgot...

and the note was scribbled on a scrap of paper
and I went out into the morning without a thought
of....

Yeast

(He must have had a hard day again today, I can hear his footfalls on the pavement. Sometimes he runs harder, panting. Other days he passes silently.)

It is dark.

We are the only ones up at this hour. Us and the man with the key to the city. He always opens the door for me. He won't take my money.

He will take a danish. Without the glaze.

I flip the switch on the ancient oven before I turn on the light. The extra seconds count. It whines in protest. I scold it gently.

Be good to me today.

I am hypnotized by the slapping of the dough. It hits the sides of the mixer, a violent sound in all this quiet.

I flour my bench.

Today I shall think about the things I don’t want to think about-its easier when my hands are busy.

I pinch a piece of dough out of the mixer. Kneed it in my fingers.

Intention vs Intent.

I make the window pane. What lies beyond is hazy.

She sits in the bucket behind me, protesting. She is hungry.

I'll feed the bitch later.

Later, later.

The dough is perfect today.

I knead with purpose, make the round, and as I cover her to rest I list my mistakes.

Intention vs Action.

Now I know the recipe by heart. I understand the cryptic code of those before me. The water may not be enough, it may be too much, you must watch, you must trust.

Instinct.

I still don't trust my own power, my alchemy. For now he still comes to watch.

Soon I will be left alone, with the oven and the bitch.

Soon they will line up to get whatever they can, as much as I can make.

Soon they will marvel at my crust, speak of my hand and how only I can make that taste.

The one that reminds them.

For now, he stands beside me and we work in comfortable silence, broken only by the slap and skid of dough on flour.

As you sleep, the yeast gives life.

As you sleep, I make the rounds.

As you sleep, I shape the bread.

As you sleep

I list my mistakes and think as only busy hands can.