all day in the house

I go back to work tomorrow. Actual work. I have settled nicely into this sweet slow life, this wife-thing, this marriage. I make our bed every day. I wash dishes joyfully, knowing beyond any doubt this is where I want to be. I have loved my personal investigation of feminism, and I do not reject the precepts. I simply embrace the domestic. I find it valuable, moreso than the pedantic pursuit of knowlege. Sorry, but I do. I've learned enough. (there I go again...) I remember writing a line in a novel that will likely never be published: "She straigtened slowly from the perpetual bent-ness of domesticity." (Jesus. With opaque shit like that, no wonder it will never see the light of day.) But really, I gather more hope from making the bed than a thousand heavily considered rejections of whose job it ought to be. The single greatest advantage of education is finally acquiring the ability to do what needs to be done whether or not I want to do it. Including making the bed. If I begin the day by making the bed, I have some hope of order for the remainder of the day. It is not that I can no longer embrace chaos -- be sure that I can -- I'm just not as entertained by it as I once was. I used to be known for the condition of my home. People who knew me talked about the science projects in my refrigerator. When asked, I didn't know where I kept the towels. I didn't do the dishes. I hired my eleven year old neice, who finally refused because she was afraid to reach into the sink. My husband, who was only an infrequent night time visitor back then, showed up one night and said, "That shit was on the floor last time I was here six months ago." I said, "Well then, you should probably pick it up." So he knows how it could be with me.

Well. I don't know what that was all about.

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