ideas in pieces
I WANT TO LET SOUND LET IT FLOW LET THAT BECOME MY activation ACTIVITY THROUGH MY HANDS MY STANCE-hear at the sink read ready for anything THE POSITION OF MY POSTure aligned to this life- hips over feet, loose, knees slightly bent, shake out neck gentle- arms alive, hands awake responsive, seeking... texture. this begins CROWS AND SWANS and WATER FOWL
HER HERE THE DAY ON PALATE THE PREFERENCES OF OUR diet. RAW OR COSSETED, AND now smile and scrape away the A MOMENT TO REFLECT as the sink fills ON THE GLORY TO WHICH WE LIVE,ALIVE break.... The radio is on. something sought to make this right- dial spins like a compass a rhythm keep ing beats a voice to engage a sound to enrich, captivating, blur, reassuring resuming reinstating the kitchen as the site of embarkation...
ADHERE TO THAT... UNCALLED FOR, WITHOUT GLORY, PUTTING THINGS RIGHT, rightful places LIKE THIS, MY VERY WORK a work OF ART - A TIME for CONSIDERATION, considering, its LIKE DANCING, HANDS MOVING TO RHYTHMS FEET TAPPING
LEAN ME LEND YOUR EARS LET ME MENTION, I THINK THIS IS BEAUTIFUL- WE LET IT BE AN ACT OF SOLIDARITY- densely bound in the dance- objectification and subjectivity - THESE ARE OUR DISHES WHICH OUR FAMILY HAS USED- THE FOOD WE ATE COOKED BOUGHT GREW, TOGETHER, SHARED IN THAT- AND THIS IS THE REWARD- THE RITUAL OF day after day after day after day
(HOW ABOUT THEM WOMEN ? THROUGH TIME KEPT SEPARATE FROM MORE PROACTIVE ACTIVITIES THAT MIGHT CHALLENGE... THEIR SENSE OF PROPRIETY/ held up as a virtuous slave (LIKE IF WE KNEW, HAD EARS FOR THINGS OTHER THAN FEMALE CONCERNS) ,had a moment to look up from the chore the household management as the lifelong quest WE WOULD NOT KEEP SILENT- RISE UP RINSE UP AND DEMAND MORE- MORE EQUALITY MORE JUSTICE MORE HARD WORK AND MORE CELEBRATION)not to suggest- there is not a magic here, kitchen- when the fire burns and the water gets poured- home hearth hub woman's place....
WOMAN! STOOD THERE OVER THE SINK LIKE YOU'RE LIFE HAD COME TO AN END- THE INSURMOUNTABLE PILE OF DISHES THAT STRETCHES INTO THE FUTURE- always WAITING- ALWAYS THE FULL STOP TO A MEAL- .... THIS IS A TIME OF CELEBRATION TODAY WE SURVIVED TO ENJOY- THIS MOMENT IF NOTHING ELSE- THIS CHANCE TO ABSORB OURSELVES IN..... absorption...
I WISH IT WAS DARK I COULD DO THIS WITH MY EYES CLOSED CLEAN RINSE THE PRACTISE OF A LIFE TIME I CAN PLAY THIS ON MY OWN- JUST YOU FOR COMPANY GRANDLY MAGNIFICENTLY UNDERSTATED IN THE RESPONSE TO THIS- A STACK OF DIRTY PLATES – HOLDING MY LIFE ON HOLD FOR 20 MINUTES THE DOOR CLOSED THE RADIO ON
(Marxist feminist Benston (1972 cited by Haralambos and Holborn: 2007) viewed the conjugal roles of women within the family, as free labourers used to provide, a capitalist society with a free resource for socialising children, and providing domestic labour.)
this is a labour of love a woman knows bright knives here soap languorous so tied with affection and responsive to the counter sinking into domesticity- I once was in the Russian circus – a plate spinner, a bottle juggler, a knife thrower a tamer of lions and fiery hoop leaper... and now, i am if not content with lesser achievements, happier to seek thrills in more exotic places....
Tea towel wipe away what counts as another yet another- study- the light in this room, my breath is the room the walls fade and the work becomes apparent like the art of making it occur me just the rider here gone gone bubbles float through the air and I note its not something new but it has not happened yet....
the most marvellous women I know are pot scrubbers- not high in any ways apart form their souls stronger than any iron- resilient and steady- full of passion and kindness. They just get on with it.
Is this a dream? Queen? This I know you get born you do the dishes you die. But the dishes bit, that stands for the whole of life- a series of acts- small great acts, great small acts- someones got to do it, and it seems to be you...
I scrub therefore I am
and I listen to the radio as I wipe the sponge my ear soaking up sonic flux and fade rinsing me clean of the accumulation of the feast of the day roast this boiled that baked on- auto pilot programmed to carry out these tasks, a strange moment- liminal between demanding chore and imaginative participation- might as well make the most out of being alive.
(there is no act that is not the activity of life)
detritus, flotsam, my hands like underwater cranes, sea claws, fishing deep for treasure- warm and reassuring that we aren't animals- no, we keep on top of things, sometimes..we try to brush away and re prepare for the next round the next the next and no regrets here hands in the sink the day plays out trials and tribulations small success's against the backdrop of global situations- what can we do here and now, wet to the elbow, pans and pots a testimony to the work that defines you, good Cook, householder, first rate pan scrubber?
The even evening continues.... the music ebbs and flows to the sound of the scourer.... “living? WE let our servants do that for us.”
In a ideal world I 'd have a dishwasher, and there'd be no wars or famine. In a ideal world I'd remember to keep on top... on all that- and keep on top of my mind, it wonders out it wonders out as these hands do their dirty work.... motions towards order, cleanliness
like a plug pulled like the moment has come and we might break down, begin again, brake all these dishes in a moment of dissolution- this is not who I am I move against the idea of serfdom- of being here again while traditionally, toasts are being raised in another room.... being tied to what cannot be described as other than the intolerable grind of the every day- I got so much on managing the home, I ain't got time to look after other things- though this cannot be described as other than an act of love- love the eaters of this food, love the dishes collected at thrift markets and as random gifts, a patchwork of china, porcelain, tin and glass....love the act of care- but know it to be my undoing- even as it could be my saving grace....
what revolution can I join, but after my chores are done? Where is the march toward emancipation? The call to arms?
creeping towards rest, lulled to consider greater considerations than . . . swipe swirl like this is the pinnacle of experience- try it out hear and now- the standing truly- spine and feet realign, the sink as prop rejected for my own two feet, like eyes closed I could do this... the rack fills up, a jenga of utensil and receptacle- the wares of an art as transient as to be almost imperceptible.
The outside, windows look out, light on trees, a view of freedom- unrepentant desires to be done and on, fulfilled away from the sanctum of housework.... nothing blocks that but the responsibility to free this workspace for the prep of the next instalment of domestic possibility
this is my chop wood carry water- rather than a moment to remember its some kind of surrender, and in that, achingly, its very very ok
HER HERE THE DAY ON PALATE THE PREFERENCES OF OUR diet. RAW OR COSSETED, AND now smile and scrape away the A MOMENT TO REFLECT as the sink fills ON THE GLORY TO WHICH WE LIVE,ALIVE break.... The radio is on. something sought to make this right- dial spins like a compass a rhythm keep ing beats a voice to engage a sound to enrich, captivating, blur, reassuring resuming reinstating the kitchen as the site of embarkation...
ADHERE TO THAT... UNCALLED FOR, WITHOUT GLORY, PUTTING THINGS RIGHT, rightful places LIKE THIS, MY VERY WORK a work OF ART - A TIME for CONSIDERATION, considering, its LIKE DANCING, HANDS MOVING TO RHYTHMS FEET TAPPING
LEAN ME LEND YOUR EARS LET ME MENTION, I THINK THIS IS BEAUTIFUL- WE LET IT BE AN ACT OF SOLIDARITY- densely bound in the dance- objectification and subjectivity - THESE ARE OUR DISHES WHICH OUR FAMILY HAS USED- THE FOOD WE ATE COOKED BOUGHT GREW, TOGETHER, SHARED IN THAT- AND THIS IS THE REWARD- THE RITUAL OF day after day after day after day
(HOW ABOUT THEM WOMEN ? THROUGH TIME KEPT SEPARATE FROM MORE PROACTIVE ACTIVITIES THAT MIGHT CHALLENGE... THEIR SENSE OF PROPRIETY/ held up as a virtuous slave (LIKE IF WE KNEW, HAD EARS FOR THINGS OTHER THAN FEMALE CONCERNS) ,had a moment to look up from the chore the household management as the lifelong quest WE WOULD NOT KEEP SILENT- RISE UP RINSE UP AND DEMAND MORE- MORE EQUALITY MORE JUSTICE MORE HARD WORK AND MORE CELEBRATION)not to suggest- there is not a magic here, kitchen- when the fire burns and the water gets poured- home hearth hub woman's place....
WOMAN! STOOD THERE OVER THE SINK LIKE YOU'RE LIFE HAD COME TO AN END- THE INSURMOUNTABLE PILE OF DISHES THAT STRETCHES INTO THE FUTURE- always WAITING- ALWAYS THE FULL STOP TO A MEAL- .... THIS IS A TIME OF CELEBRATION TODAY WE SURVIVED TO ENJOY- THIS MOMENT IF NOTHING ELSE- THIS CHANCE TO ABSORB OURSELVES IN..... absorption...
I WISH IT WAS DARK I COULD DO THIS WITH MY EYES CLOSED CLEAN RINSE THE PRACTISE OF A LIFE TIME I CAN PLAY THIS ON MY OWN- JUST YOU FOR COMPANY GRANDLY MAGNIFICENTLY UNDERSTATED IN THE RESPONSE TO THIS- A STACK OF DIRTY PLATES – HOLDING MY LIFE ON HOLD FOR 20 MINUTES THE DOOR CLOSED THE RADIO ON
(Marxist feminist Benston (1972 cited by Haralambos and Holborn: 2007) viewed the conjugal roles of women within the family, as free labourers used to provide, a capitalist society with a free resource for socialising children, and providing domestic labour.)
this is a labour of love a woman knows bright knives here soap languorous so tied with affection and responsive to the counter sinking into domesticity- I once was in the Russian circus – a plate spinner, a bottle juggler, a knife thrower a tamer of lions and fiery hoop leaper... and now, i am if not content with lesser achievements, happier to seek thrills in more exotic places....
Tea towel wipe away what counts as another yet another- study- the light in this room, my breath is the room the walls fade and the work becomes apparent like the art of making it occur me just the rider here gone gone bubbles float through the air and I note its not something new but it has not happened yet....
the most marvellous women I know are pot scrubbers- not high in any ways apart form their souls stronger than any iron- resilient and steady- full of passion and kindness. They just get on with it.
Is this a dream? Queen? This I know you get born you do the dishes you die. But the dishes bit, that stands for the whole of life- a series of acts- small great acts, great small acts- someones got to do it, and it seems to be you...
I scrub therefore I am
and I listen to the radio as I wipe the sponge my ear soaking up sonic flux and fade rinsing me clean of the accumulation of the feast of the day roast this boiled that baked on- auto pilot programmed to carry out these tasks, a strange moment- liminal between demanding chore and imaginative participation- might as well make the most out of being alive.
(there is no act that is not the activity of life)
detritus, flotsam, my hands like underwater cranes, sea claws, fishing deep for treasure- warm and reassuring that we aren't animals- no, we keep on top of things, sometimes..we try to brush away and re prepare for the next round the next the next and no regrets here hands in the sink the day plays out trials and tribulations small success's against the backdrop of global situations- what can we do here and now, wet to the elbow, pans and pots a testimony to the work that defines you, good Cook, householder, first rate pan scrubber?
The even evening continues.... the music ebbs and flows to the sound of the scourer.... “living? WE let our servants do that for us.”
In a ideal world I 'd have a dishwasher, and there'd be no wars or famine. In a ideal world I'd remember to keep on top... on all that- and keep on top of my mind, it wonders out it wonders out as these hands do their dirty work.... motions towards order, cleanliness
like a plug pulled like the moment has come and we might break down, begin again, brake all these dishes in a moment of dissolution- this is not who I am I move against the idea of serfdom- of being here again while traditionally, toasts are being raised in another room.... being tied to what cannot be described as other than the intolerable grind of the every day- I got so much on managing the home, I ain't got time to look after other things- though this cannot be described as other than an act of love- love the eaters of this food, love the dishes collected at thrift markets and as random gifts, a patchwork of china, porcelain, tin and glass....love the act of care- but know it to be my undoing- even as it could be my saving grace....
what revolution can I join, but after my chores are done? Where is the march toward emancipation? The call to arms?
I am yet the only one that hears me? I am not beyond the risk running like I might just break something might just throw it to the floor and running out the door go find some other (don't say it don't) another challenging quest to better right my angles on- stood here sink sunk grounded in a chore.
Yeh th\anks, you know we love our kids the lines of concern and quickness to defend shows it to be so, its not a home made thing, a construction of so many parts- do the washing up, go fall asleep in the
hands held by
outside
glass reflects a synchronised empty movement- a silent dancer caught catching the eye occasionally- god you wash up sooo well..... that outside- holding all its secrets body chained to the sink mind set free to roam--- foreign lands women squatting at the well, pan will dishes, soft light, tin and steel plate, sand and mud to catch grease and smell the evening the birds returning to their roosts, or cities with...silent lines of gliding sides white on gray on expanses and some kind of control...
put it where it belongs
the mechanics of hands and fingers and arms work- washing up, fixing watches and playing piano
figarandos, works of art that do not remain, move on, transform are other than less than more than...
creeping towards rest, lulled to consider greater considerations than . . . swipe swirl like this is the pinnacle of experience- try it out hear and now- the standing truly- spine and feet realign, the sink as prop rejected for my own two feet, like eyes closed I could do this... the rack fills up, a jenga of utensil and receptacle- the wares of an art as transient as to be almost imperceptible.
The outside, windows look out, light on trees, a view of freedom- unrepentant desires to be done and on, fulfilled away from the sanctum of housework.... nothing blocks that but the responsibility to free this workspace for the prep of the next instalment of domestic possibility
this is my chop wood carry water- rather than a moment to remember its some kind of surrender, and in that, achingly, its very very ok
1 comment:
this is some free scripting, an attempt to capture some of the fleeting thoughts that pass during 'washing up'. this writng is not finalized- more as example to what has been generated so far.
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