Careful and deliberate breathing.
It feels almost unjust to record these days and responses, however it is not, and keeps me writing, which is also part of the bigger goal: the specifically defined life. I have not taken time for such quiet and focused contemplation in too long to think about.
I have read today of the Sybils and of Hypatia. I have considered cataloging and the ordering of the mind in its cycles and distractions. I have wondered of the wisdom of recipe-less cauliflower and cheese soup. That may have to wait. I am not so certain of cooking yet and still must wash many dishes.
I found myself staring at the radiator in the kitchen, sparking with the possibilities of its inner life.
The bathroom floor & the sink are cleaned as are the desk and one of the bookshelves. I feel a bit like the kid in the picture book I had as a child who only washed one part of himself a day and at the end of the week was still half dirty!
It is not entirely surprising that I've begun to sweep more now that I spend much more time than before in close contact with the floor. I see the crud and smell the air. it is a completely different perspective.
Four of the clutter-keepers I made have been emptied. One of them is on the ironing pad - pinned (bottom & lid) to finally take some kind of shape that is well-defined. I had fun making those bowls.
It is noted that there are still many sore spots in the re-establishing of certain habits. I am uncertain what to call my responses to them. I am not apathetic, nor am I inclined to anger or re-created hurt (that is to say: there is old hurt & the recognition of its source, but without addition) from whining or a sense of unfairness. There is some lingering dismissiveness (as, for example, my predilection for some kind of ceremony of tea) which I feel is as harmful as any other lingering resentment. It is acknowledged and I cannot be honest and say that any more is required. The soreness will pass away, as the soreness of muscles kept working toward the goal of greater strength and flexibility. The pain exists. It is no meaningful distraction. It is more than I thought it was, which makes sense: if I did not know how tense and inflexible my body had become, how could I guess at the same stagnation in my ego and my heart.
I stretch my reason and my emotions must needs reach out. It is good to be gentle. It is good to clean one floor and let the rest be there on a different day.
Showing posts with label cleaning. Show all posts
Showing posts with label cleaning. Show all posts
Sunday, 21 February 2010
Monday, 23 February 2009
Bits from Sunday pm
It is not so easy to recapture the silence and movement of yesterday in the chatter and chairs of this afternoon, but I will do my best.
The television is not where it will be, though it is also not where it was one step closer to ready for the summer's heat escaping from the sunny funk in the kitchen that was the whole reason to move the television in the first place.
Every goal must be achieved through a series of steps as I reconnect with my home after it or I have been ill, usually both together and similarly. The funk must be identified and eliminated, it does violence to my healing senses from its invisible perch lately placed somewhere near the kitchen sink. It could be from the dishes.
The dishes get done last.
In order to move the cookbooks and the cat food and the table, the television, DVD and VCR must take space from the radio, writing desk, telephone and lavender which have been dislocated to the chairs for the duration as Pledge wipes make their way and the broom sweeps up litter and I mop the rugs of cat hair, glad to be free of the vacuum that sits in the almost way and has and will until I get around to letting go. Sets of altar decorations (for every horizontal surface is an altar) move together and are cleaned together and rearranged as I make plans to do this again in two months, only hoping that my apartment tetris skills allow me the mental space to work again, tho I have the had space for days and have not used it but for sleeping. The refrigerator top, the table top, the boards and blocks and stove-top and burners and door handles the hyphens between movement.
And all of this accompanied by dancing and a grace the felines do not acknowledge to my face. It is the grace of knowing where everything is or will be, how to get there and how to make things happen. The invisible part of housework and homemaking and living in rooms defined so specifically. This is my little cave and I the bear, groggy and dreaming and unwilling to tolerate tripping over shit in my way and tired of litter under my feet and in the cats' fur and sensing the absence of friends and comfortable surroundings.
The sunlight in rays inaccessible to small cats leaves the kitchen warm, spreads the smell of something. The discomfort is no longer bearable.
I have not been well enough to dance through the mess, cleaning. Today is different, legs and back and arms and focus working, though slowly, and the sink is clean, the stove white, the trash out and in the late evening I find quiet in the chair too large for the living room, and my home settles.
The funk is still present.
The dance continues.
The television is not where it will be, though it is also not where it was one step closer to ready for the summer's heat escaping from the sunny funk in the kitchen that was the whole reason to move the television in the first place.
Every goal must be achieved through a series of steps as I reconnect with my home after it or I have been ill, usually both together and similarly. The funk must be identified and eliminated, it does violence to my healing senses from its invisible perch lately placed somewhere near the kitchen sink. It could be from the dishes.
The dishes get done last.
In order to move the cookbooks and the cat food and the table, the television, DVD and VCR must take space from the radio, writing desk, telephone and lavender which have been dislocated to the chairs for the duration as Pledge wipes make their way and the broom sweeps up litter and I mop the rugs of cat hair, glad to be free of the vacuum that sits in the almost way and has and will until I get around to letting go. Sets of altar decorations (for every horizontal surface is an altar) move together and are cleaned together and rearranged as I make plans to do this again in two months, only hoping that my apartment tetris skills allow me the mental space to work again, tho I have the had space for days and have not used it but for sleeping. The refrigerator top, the table top, the boards and blocks and stove-top and burners and door handles the hyphens between movement.
And all of this accompanied by dancing and a grace the felines do not acknowledge to my face. It is the grace of knowing where everything is or will be, how to get there and how to make things happen. The invisible part of housework and homemaking and living in rooms defined so specifically. This is my little cave and I the bear, groggy and dreaming and unwilling to tolerate tripping over shit in my way and tired of litter under my feet and in the cats' fur and sensing the absence of friends and comfortable surroundings.
The sunlight in rays inaccessible to small cats leaves the kitchen warm, spreads the smell of something. The discomfort is no longer bearable.
I have not been well enough to dance through the mess, cleaning. Today is different, legs and back and arms and focus working, though slowly, and the sink is clean, the stove white, the trash out and in the late evening I find quiet in the chair too large for the living room, and my home settles.
The funk is still present.
The dance continues.
Sunday, 28 October 2007
The thing about socks
I just threw away about 5 socks and four pair of underwear. The reason for this is as follows: plastic tubs on sale at Pamida, therefore there was buying, therefore there was using, therefore there was some consideration for the number of socks and underwear I own and so, some of them had to go. I threw away socks that had holes in them. As I don't match my socks, as a rule, and so don't have to deal with the pain of finding the single one, it's not like there should be any big deal about it. There are certain things not to keep - socks and underwear with holes fall on this list.
And yet. I haven't thrown away a sock that wasn't practically lace in years. And I mean like Years - more than 2. My socks are tough. They can stand on their own with any other sock I choose, they got drug around the house by Til who liked to think they were her kittens (did anyone else (Anne) notice that she stopped doing that when Wigs had her first litter?)(I just realized it.)(I think she went to scarves and sweaters after that), and now they suffer from the affectionate rubs and clawings and occasional attempts by Ethel to pick them up and carry them away while they are still on my feet. I collected them like they were a drug after Joe and I split. Anne was the one who noticed that I was developing a problem with the dollar sock bin at Walgreens.
But, But, But - Dollar Socks!!!
And now some of them are gone. Probably more than some of them, but that's not the point, my current pain is the point - focus, please.
I wonder: how many socks are too many socks? Same for underwear. Bras, too. We are talking about functional foundation wear only. Because I've lived with people (husbands) who seemed to think that the best way around having to wash underwear was to buy more. I never got that. But, maybe someone else does - I don't know.
Anyway, I'm kind of sad now. I'll live. The felines are being distracting and demanding and wonderful and Cloud is staring at me as if I was the one responsible for levitating her food bowl away from its rightful spot and into the microwave. Well, I am, but that's neither here nor there.
I'm going to read a book and contemplate something. I haven't decided yet what it will be.
And yet. I haven't thrown away a sock that wasn't practically lace in years. And I mean like Years - more than 2. My socks are tough. They can stand on their own with any other sock I choose, they got drug around the house by Til who liked to think they were her kittens (did anyone else (Anne) notice that she stopped doing that when Wigs had her first litter?)(I just realized it.)(I think she went to scarves and sweaters after that), and now they suffer from the affectionate rubs and clawings and occasional attempts by Ethel to pick them up and carry them away while they are still on my feet. I collected them like they were a drug after Joe and I split. Anne was the one who noticed that I was developing a problem with the dollar sock bin at Walgreens.
But, But, But - Dollar Socks!!!
And now some of them are gone. Probably more than some of them, but that's not the point, my current pain is the point - focus, please.
I wonder: how many socks are too many socks? Same for underwear. Bras, too. We are talking about functional foundation wear only. Because I've lived with people (husbands) who seemed to think that the best way around having to wash underwear was to buy more. I never got that. But, maybe someone else does - I don't know.
Anyway, I'm kind of sad now. I'll live. The felines are being distracting and demanding and wonderful and Cloud is staring at me as if I was the one responsible for levitating her food bowl away from its rightful spot and into the microwave. Well, I am, but that's neither here nor there.
I'm going to read a book and contemplate something. I haven't decided yet what it will be.
Saturday, 7 July 2007
The Grand Cleaning Out
The decision, in it's current permutation, is to travel for 6 months around the Mediterranean and then see what happens after.
That doesn't change the trend in the house towards Anne and Sarah getting rid of shit. I have taken 6 boxes of books to A Novel Idea. 5 shelves worth of books. 5 of them. Started going through the closet today. Probably already have 2 boxes worth on my bed. Still many many to go through. I do have a pile started for Sierra, although I have to remember to add Johnny Tremain to the stack.
Threw out 3/4 of a box worth of papers, with the box. That was fucking exciting.
Made some executive decisions:
Martha Grimes goes. MamaPapa have them all, there is no need to duplicate.
Eco stays. Because I fucking love him. I have all of the fiction and it will take a certain amount of focused energy to collect all of the non-fiction. Unless I am patient and wait for some other fanboy to publish the anthology in 3 volumes including never before collected articles on the cultural phenomenon of Underoos and bad cop shows. I would be this fanboy. Yes. Yes I would.
The Boondocks collection stays. Someday it will be joined by others: Achewood, Pibgorn, MacHall, Sandman and anything else I love that I can find in bulk.
Oh, I remember. I bought a book today. yeah, I know, bite me. It's an Everyman Library Collection book of creepy ghosty poetry. I am totally sold on the Everyman Library Collection books. I have one of TS Eliot's poetry including The Waste Land (dear goddess I love that poem). I am thinking of taking about 4 or 5 of them with me on my travels. They are smallish, well-made and just the thing for a me.
It is fucking hot out.
Love to all.
That doesn't change the trend in the house towards Anne and Sarah getting rid of shit. I have taken 6 boxes of books to A Novel Idea. 5 shelves worth of books. 5 of them. Started going through the closet today. Probably already have 2 boxes worth on my bed. Still many many to go through. I do have a pile started for Sierra, although I have to remember to add Johnny Tremain to the stack.
Threw out 3/4 of a box worth of papers, with the box. That was fucking exciting.
Made some executive decisions:
Martha Grimes goes. MamaPapa have them all, there is no need to duplicate.
Eco stays. Because I fucking love him. I have all of the fiction and it will take a certain amount of focused energy to collect all of the non-fiction. Unless I am patient and wait for some other fanboy to publish the anthology in 3 volumes including never before collected articles on the cultural phenomenon of Underoos and bad cop shows. I would be this fanboy. Yes. Yes I would.
The Boondocks collection stays. Someday it will be joined by others: Achewood, Pibgorn, MacHall, Sandman and anything else I love that I can find in bulk.
Oh, I remember. I bought a book today. yeah, I know, bite me. It's an Everyman Library Collection book of creepy ghosty poetry. I am totally sold on the Everyman Library Collection books. I have one of TS Eliot's poetry including The Waste Land (dear goddess I love that poem). I am thinking of taking about 4 or 5 of them with me on my travels. They are smallish, well-made and just the thing for a me.
It is fucking hot out.
Love to all.
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