I get undressed to shower, dropping my clothes on the tiled bathroom floor. Afterwards I will put my foot into my discarded boxers and use them like a dust mop, wiping the floor and then sliding them down the hallway along the smooth sliver of wood between the baseboard of the wall and the faux-wool rug—an area that collects dust, demands vigilance. And that’s how I keep things clean around here.
Likewise, the kitchen floor might get attention when it’s time to change out the dish towel that hangs from the oven, that has hung there for well more than a month. Just toss it on the floor, push it around a bit rather un-strategically, then open the basement door and kick it down the stairs into the darkness for someday’s laundry and, as they say, viola. That’s how you clean the kitchen floor. Clean enough, anyway.
Though I’m not in the bird killing business, I like to think of it as two birds, one stone. And if it is not a time saver, then it is a matter of available resources. The boxers, the dish towel, the paper towel that I blew my nose into, turned over to the clean side and then wiped a small spot of dried cabernet from the countertop with—they were available, so I sourced them. I am not by nature efficient, but when I see such an opportunity, I’m certainly not blind to it.
If you have a dog or a cat whose anus you allow to be on your couch, in your lap, or on your bed, I would invite you to step down from the high horse that is also apparently your pet and relax. “Yes, but they lick themselves clean, even the nasty parts, so it’s fine.” Have yourself a lick then and report back. When you lie down with animals, you rise up with microscopic poop particles, as do all your guests and other visitors. Though I love dogs.
But I am the animal in my home. I have adapted to my environment and I use the modern tools available to me for my survival. Tree pulp in its various forms. Cotton and polyester. A machine that makes the soft items swim in agitated waters and another that whirls them like a merry-go-round, joyless in the desert sun. All powered by some mutually disagreed upon source generated from an uncertain location. Torn from the earth. Set on fire.
Don’t tell me that I’m doing it wrong. This life. These various tasks. Of lists and lint. The dust gathering on the floor, on the countertops, on the windowsills—that dust is as much you and me as it is anything else. Soon it will be all of us. All that is left. So gather yourself as best you can before you’re scattered to the wind.
Some days are endless until one day is not and that day is then suddenly too soon. Washed away. Mopped up. Dried out. Kicked down the stairs into the darkness. Viola.
Note: I can’t really decide what this is but I like it. It has a rhythm to it, a bit lyrical, and sometimes writing just seems more like a feeling to me than a thought, and that was the case here. I caught myself wiping my bathroom floor with my boxers and I laughed and I wrote this. What am I doing exactly? Is this normal? Is this right? I don’t know precisely what it means. It might be about how I don’t enjoy cleaning. It has too many ideas going so it’s not entirely focused, but neither am I. I think it’s honest. And somewhere in there I see a poem for another day.
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