Scott was not sure what he felt inside. He knew it teetered between sheer rage and extreme sadness but somehow they blurred. He felt the heaviness of the wood handle in his hands as he gripped with two hands. The sledgehammer was all he could think about this morning when he decided he was ready.
Maggie had left a month ago and he knew she was not coming back. They had spent every day together for the last seven years. She had moved in shortly after they had met and it was somewhat effortless. Somewhere along the way she was slowly retreating and he did not even notice. Last month, he came home to find the closet empty and most all the CD’s gone from the mega-hundred collection of favorite genres they both enjoyed.
Scott stared at the white ceramic subway tile walls. He remembered when they had tiled this bathroom in just one weekend impressing themselves with their effort. He pulled the hammer back over his shoulder and swung with all his effort into the pristine tile wall. As he felt a solid thunder of energy release and tile crackle to the ground, he thought about how he had hated the white tiles all along. Why did he agree to such a plain, colorless room anyways? Scott gave that first blow every bit of his deep hatred for the sterile perfection that surrounded him. He needed it to be gone. He was cleaning house. Time for a new beginning, a new bathroom, something that was only about him and not them.
Friday, November 19, 2010
Cleaning House - Kent Wright
It was never long after he had buzzed you in and barely said hello that he offered the first drink. He didn’t pretend to be grandma. It wasn’t lemonade but alcohol he was talking about when he said drink. He pressed if you declined or opted for water. Usually, he had already had one (or more depending on what time you rang his bell). He was thirty or so during the brief time I knew him. He had a prep school background, had a diploma from a good college, and was still looking for a job that suited him. By being picky about whom he worked for he could avoid work. By talking endlessly, condescendingly about his search for that position where his unique talents would glow with prominence he could also avoid the uncomfortable fact that he lived on an ample trust fund provided by a family he professed to hate. He could indulge himself and did. He enjoyed being volital in his opinions, and nothing pleased him more than broadcasting how he could impose his ideas of acceptability on others. He didn’t impose them on the strong of course. He enjoyed being a bully far too much for that.
When I refused his offer of a drink at 11am that final time I saw him, he frowned and said we needed to get out of there and go to lunch anyway. The cleaning lady was there cleaning house, and he hated being around for that. He could barely stand having her around he said. Even after he bought clothes for her to change into from the Gap when she came to clean he couldn’t stand being there with “someone like that”.
“You should see what she comes in,” he said bitterly.
“Oh, I can just imagine!” I said, and he assumed that meant I agreed.
When I refused his offer of a drink at 11am that final time I saw him, he frowned and said we needed to get out of there and go to lunch anyway. The cleaning lady was there cleaning house, and he hated being around for that. He could barely stand having her around he said. Even after he bought clothes for her to change into from the Gap when she came to clean he couldn’t stand being there with “someone like that”.
“You should see what she comes in,” he said bitterly.
“Oh, I can just imagine!” I said, and he assumed that meant I agreed.
Cleaning House - Melody Cryns
This morning I awoke to music softly playing on my iPod which I set to shuffle and fall asleep to – it’s cool because you never know what music will pop up. A Led Zeppelin song, a Beatles song and then Irish folk music – I slowly sat up in bed and rubbed my eyes looking at the boxes stacked in the corner, the dresser filled with stacks of paper I’ve got to go through, a laundry basket sitting on top of yet another box – my room is a disheveled mess, the place where we put all the stuff we have no idea what to do with.
I always have these grand plans of cleaning up my room, sort of like cleaning out the cobwebs in my brain or my life – but then I wonder, what the heck am I going to do with this stuff? There’s that box of stuff that we got out of my car that was totaled – miscellaneous things that I don’t want to throw away, yet have no idea what to do with. There are the boxes of pictures that some day need to be gone through, and the sleeping bag and sleeping pads from the Burning Uke campout I went to September. All I have is a closet, no storage room, no garage – all of the piles of things that would normally go someplace sit in my bedroom – there are the bookcases stuffed with books and bathroom items sitting on the book shelves – in hopes that Megan doesn’t use them or lose them, deordorant, nail clippers. I’ve had to replace nail clippers countless times because whenever I need them, they’re gone – disappeared someplace into the abyss. I ask Megan and she says, “I don’t know where they are!”
Last week, we managed to misplace a huge package of toilet paper. How does one lose something like this? Well, apparently, the package was buried some clothes on my dresser and we just didn’t see it right away.
Sometimes I wonder where we’ll be living. Will we even stay at this house? Is this situation really going to work out or are we just going to have to pack up again and move? I’ll finally get my room in order and suddenly, we have to leave again – I’m always afraid of that. You never know. So my stuff is still unorganized – and I will get to it, one day.
I remember that recurring dream that I had for years – where I’m in an empty house with hardwood floor – it’s an older house and I can see bare tree branches outside the window – but I have no idea where this house is. The living room is completely empty and there’s a warm fireplace – and I see my mother wearing her flannel nightgown walking towards me – with that “matter of fact” look on her white face, and those gray blue eyes so much like my daughter Melissa’s eyes wide – she smiles and then she says, “Mary, when are you going to unpack your boxes? It’s time!”
She points to stacks of boxes in the kitchen of this house – the kitchen is on the other end of the rather large living room, and the rooms sort of blend together with a countertop in between – I can really see this house, but I don’t know where it is, why I’m there.
“Oh yeah, I’ll get to it, Mom. I promise.”
Then Mom fades away and I’m back here again – and I still have to unpack those boxes. After all, I am going to be a Grandma. Time to step it up.
It’s time.
I always have these grand plans of cleaning up my room, sort of like cleaning out the cobwebs in my brain or my life – but then I wonder, what the heck am I going to do with this stuff? There’s that box of stuff that we got out of my car that was totaled – miscellaneous things that I don’t want to throw away, yet have no idea what to do with. There are the boxes of pictures that some day need to be gone through, and the sleeping bag and sleeping pads from the Burning Uke campout I went to September. All I have is a closet, no storage room, no garage – all of the piles of things that would normally go someplace sit in my bedroom – there are the bookcases stuffed with books and bathroom items sitting on the book shelves – in hopes that Megan doesn’t use them or lose them, deordorant, nail clippers. I’ve had to replace nail clippers countless times because whenever I need them, they’re gone – disappeared someplace into the abyss. I ask Megan and she says, “I don’t know where they are!”
Last week, we managed to misplace a huge package of toilet paper. How does one lose something like this? Well, apparently, the package was buried some clothes on my dresser and we just didn’t see it right away.
Sometimes I wonder where we’ll be living. Will we even stay at this house? Is this situation really going to work out or are we just going to have to pack up again and move? I’ll finally get my room in order and suddenly, we have to leave again – I’m always afraid of that. You never know. So my stuff is still unorganized – and I will get to it, one day.
I remember that recurring dream that I had for years – where I’m in an empty house with hardwood floor – it’s an older house and I can see bare tree branches outside the window – but I have no idea where this house is. The living room is completely empty and there’s a warm fireplace – and I see my mother wearing her flannel nightgown walking towards me – with that “matter of fact” look on her white face, and those gray blue eyes so much like my daughter Melissa’s eyes wide – she smiles and then she says, “Mary, when are you going to unpack your boxes? It’s time!”
She points to stacks of boxes in the kitchen of this house – the kitchen is on the other end of the rather large living room, and the rooms sort of blend together with a countertop in between – I can really see this house, but I don’t know where it is, why I’m there.
“Oh yeah, I’ll get to it, Mom. I promise.”
Then Mom fades away and I’m back here again – and I still have to unpack those boxes. After all, I am going to be a Grandma. Time to step it up.
It’s time.
Light - Maria Robinson
The fog over Tangiers is swept away in the hours before 5 am. The clear sky is reading for the first call to morning prayer. The City, buttressed up against the rock of Gibraltar and the westward expanse of the Atlantic, was the final port of the Phoenicians and the Romans as their ships coveted the last landfall before the infinite darkness to nowhere, the end of Africa and the Mediterranean.
Vera is sleeping lightly in her room at the El Minzah hotel, waiting for the moment with the Iman will call out the chant to Allah and the City will begin to stir with a frantic rhythm until the evening.
The mornings are so precious. I want them to last forever, says Vera. The night coaxes me to sleep only at the last moment and then its time.
Turkish coffee will arrive outside her door with a small knock from the concierge and she will drink it on the small balcony overlooking the Islamic fountain in the hotel's courtyard.
Vera is sleeping lightly in her room at the El Minzah hotel, waiting for the moment with the Iman will call out the chant to Allah and the City will begin to stir with a frantic rhythm until the evening.
The mornings are so precious. I want them to last forever, says Vera. The night coaxes me to sleep only at the last moment and then its time.
Turkish coffee will arrive outside her door with a small knock from the concierge and she will drink it on the small balcony overlooking the Islamic fountain in the hotel's courtyard.
Saving It - Barbara Jordan
She was saving it for someone, she just wasn't sure for what or whom. She wanted to feel safe. She was sick of that gnawing feeling that Internet dating had given her--that she was a disposable commodity, and some kind of entertainment for someone with a short attention span. Plus she always seemed to be matched up with a geriatric headed for the nearest nursing home. Nor was she was interested in this new-wave cult that called themselves "friends with benefits." She had so many friends and so many benefits, that it made her laugh that some horny person had the need to create a name for it, just for the sake of getting laid.
So she woke up everyday alone. Because it was better than the feeling in the pit of her stomach that came from empty promises and well rehearsed lines. She had stopped chasing and was in a place of repose, and it didn't make her sad anymore. And she had stopped running, because one day she woke up and couldn't remember what she was running from. It was like being in a constant state of longing--a sweet place really--of anticipation and excitement and living on the edge. Sometimes she was lonely, but she did not miss being a couple.
So she woke up everyday alone. Because it was better than the feeling in the pit of her stomach that came from empty promises and well rehearsed lines. She had stopped chasing and was in a place of repose, and it didn't make her sad anymore. And she had stopped running, because one day she woke up and couldn't remember what she was running from. It was like being in a constant state of longing--a sweet place really--of anticipation and excitement and living on the edge. Sometimes she was lonely, but she did not miss being a couple.
Saving It - Kate Bueler
As I drive my car on this frigid morning down this one-way street. Leaves fly like paper strips over my head. And then there are few stuck. Holding onto this windshield its tentacles not letting go of the glass. The brownish greenish colors grows and starts making that tick tick tick sound of movement upon the car. I ponder those. As the last one drifts away likes the other. There was no saving it.
I drive. Drive as I am already late. Down market. Behind the train or not. Not going to the right lane. And then the strategically placed makeup in between the succession of the lights. I don’t makeup while driving just like I don’t text either. At the lights, I place the tinted moisturizer upon my face, glasses finding a home upon my head. And then the green light is glowing. Glasses back down to the bridge of my nose. Saving it the mascara until the next. I need two things this cover up and mascara to feel complete. One over the other. Not so sure. Driving around the freeway of this city to market until Portola to I can’t find parking. I can save me not now. I am late. To a thing where some people know me but the ones in charge don’t. Monday Street cleaning everywhere. Every sign. I see one classmate walk. Late too. And another. I stop to yell out my window. Heat on, air in. As I yell, I roll roll past the stop sign until a woman yells at me with her eyes. Shit. Not saving me. But saving her. From me in my haphazardness of running into her. I need to find a spot. To save myself from being much later. I do.
And as I park. An elderly Asian woman stops to direct me. She moves her hand about and laughs when I do the city tap to the pickup truck in front of me. I get out and see her and thank her. Thank her for saving me. But she doesn’t understand me. She understand my thanks but not the words. She smiles and mumbles and walks on. Saving me she did from another ticket or tow or whatever is the wrath of having a car in this city bankrupt like the rest. I walk into the room during the discussion of crisis. What do in a crisis in a school not even 8:30 am yet. Eyes scan across the room. I see I know half the room. I sit and learn how to save yourself and save others in this thing called life. The manual sits upon our shared table at this training. Saving it, saving comes in forms and in ways that don’t always entails a capitol S under a shirt. Saving nonetheless. In big. In small. Ways. Doesn’t matter. A savior we all can be. Just for a moment. And for a moment I savor that. They forgot to put that in the manual.
I drive. Drive as I am already late. Down market. Behind the train or not. Not going to the right lane. And then the strategically placed makeup in between the succession of the lights. I don’t makeup while driving just like I don’t text either. At the lights, I place the tinted moisturizer upon my face, glasses finding a home upon my head. And then the green light is glowing. Glasses back down to the bridge of my nose. Saving it the mascara until the next. I need two things this cover up and mascara to feel complete. One over the other. Not so sure. Driving around the freeway of this city to market until Portola to I can’t find parking. I can save me not now. I am late. To a thing where some people know me but the ones in charge don’t. Monday Street cleaning everywhere. Every sign. I see one classmate walk. Late too. And another. I stop to yell out my window. Heat on, air in. As I yell, I roll roll past the stop sign until a woman yells at me with her eyes. Shit. Not saving me. But saving her. From me in my haphazardness of running into her. I need to find a spot. To save myself from being much later. I do.
And as I park. An elderly Asian woman stops to direct me. She moves her hand about and laughs when I do the city tap to the pickup truck in front of me. I get out and see her and thank her. Thank her for saving me. But she doesn’t understand me. She understand my thanks but not the words. She smiles and mumbles and walks on. Saving me she did from another ticket or tow or whatever is the wrath of having a car in this city bankrupt like the rest. I walk into the room during the discussion of crisis. What do in a crisis in a school not even 8:30 am yet. Eyes scan across the room. I see I know half the room. I sit and learn how to save yourself and save others in this thing called life. The manual sits upon our shared table at this training. Saving it, saving comes in forms and in ways that don’t always entails a capitol S under a shirt. Saving nonetheless. In big. In small. Ways. Doesn’t matter. A savior we all can be. Just for a moment. And for a moment I savor that. They forgot to put that in the manual.
Dark - E. D. James
It was dark before Julka left the apartment. The stolen day to herself had left her feeling rejuvenated but lonely by the end. As much as she wanted Arnold out of her life, she was used to having someone around and she knew getting used to the solitary life would take a bit of time. The streets were shiny from the streetlights reflecting off the water from the light rain that had fallen all afternoon. The air tasted fresh and alive. There was a Friday night hum in the air. A woman carrying bags from two of the shops on the street smiled as Julka caught her eye. A young boy holding his mothers hand as they waited at the stoplight squished his pudgy fist at her in greeting. Three guys in their twenties steamed past leaving the smell of burning bush in their wake.
She’d started her journey thinking she would head for one of the restaurants on the street to have a drink, maybe sit at the bar and eat. But as she passed the bright doorways and looked in at the packs of bodies jostling she lost her nerve and kept walking. The rain had lightened to just a gentle mist. Moisture gathering on her eyelashes refracted the lights creating crazy color patterns in her vision. She walked with an itch not knowing what would satisfy, only that she hadn’t found it. Russian Hill loomed and she kept on, climbing in the mist, the wheels of the cars splashing by on the street beside her. It felt as if she were joining a great pilgrimage to North Beach.
At the top of the hill the Bay Bridge gleamed with the great stream of cars carrying bodies into town for the Friday spawning ritual. She headed down into the fertile flow of Columbus and wandered through the tourists and lovers until she found herself at City Lights. The man in the pork pie behind the counter gave her a wink and she plunged down the cedar planks to the travel section in the basement.
She’d started her journey thinking she would head for one of the restaurants on the street to have a drink, maybe sit at the bar and eat. But as she passed the bright doorways and looked in at the packs of bodies jostling she lost her nerve and kept walking. The rain had lightened to just a gentle mist. Moisture gathering on her eyelashes refracted the lights creating crazy color patterns in her vision. She walked with an itch not knowing what would satisfy, only that she hadn’t found it. Russian Hill loomed and she kept on, climbing in the mist, the wheels of the cars splashing by on the street beside her. It felt as if she were joining a great pilgrimage to North Beach.
At the top of the hill the Bay Bridge gleamed with the great stream of cars carrying bodies into town for the Friday spawning ritual. She headed down into the fertile flow of Columbus and wandered through the tourists and lovers until she found herself at City Lights. The man in the pork pie behind the counter gave her a wink and she plunged down the cedar planks to the travel section in the basement.
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