Thanks to those who provided helpful advice on my burning topic of fitted sheet folding. Despite all attempts to enwisdom me I am still madly twisting the bottom into a tense puffy bow and stuffing it into the drawer swallow by swallow. Perversely, I now have this nagging desire to iron my sheets. No idea why. Well, that's not quite true. It has been god awful and mean shitty cold here lately and the thought of steaming hot linens has its appeal. Still, hardly practical to iron a sheet, race upstairs, fling it on the bed and hope it stays warm while I finish up the others. Just idiotic, but still it nags.
Not a fan of ironed things, but there's a love of the steam and the wavering scenes beind the white column. Something in the intermittent hiss and glide and the secrets which the fabric gives up in buried smells released by the heat. I'm not fastidious. I'm not bothered by wrinkles in the least. I think there must be an alchemist part of me, enjoying the mutagenicity of t-shirts and pillowcases neatly creased as broken glass, stuffed in the bottom of the clean laundry bag, fuming and changing and relaxing under moist heat. Not much threat of becoming an obsessive ironing compulsive: I don't have the time.
Not sure where it goes, the time. Not sure at all. There's a lot of bits spent at the kitchen sink cleaning the latest peanut butter-covered knife and the latest lip-greased cup for tea. The coffee stains and the coffee syrup coated spoons and for god's sake the dog hairs and the dog staring waiting hoping praying for...for what? Jesus Christ, I wish I knew what was on her mind with the breathing and the sighing and the plaintive shedding. Fine dog though, mind, absolute sweetheart, loyal and kind. Furthermore, she keeps Mary's feet warm at times and that's a service worth as is worth.
Mostly the time lately is in being in between, halfway there and needing to be on the way. Not my favorite way to spend a life. I love endless days and endless days only start with endless mornings, whatever say the fans of late night. No day lasts as long as one started before the sun comes up. Every hour then a gift, a cold secret gift, a mysterious fat and wide eyed tight scalped time. Lately I've been rising with the post, good woman who delivers the mail, hitting our stoop at hours almost noon, not the way I'd choose. Up till three and what would I expect--but these hours after midnight are watery quick, weaving quick leaving quick, depleting things. Hours spent on farting and on wishes of sleep. Not the thing at all and a hard thing to change. Time now to get out and let the dog piss, or bark or howl or whatever she's of a mind.