A line, a movement, an impression: is mark-making only the privilege of people with palette and paint? The snail's trail (of course) is silvery. But what of the wingbeats of bats, invisible, but mischievous, and as color-latent as any brushstroke?
To be perfectly clear, I might have said “no, not that kind of domestic incident”, assuming that the subtext was peaceful. Maybe if I had called it “household occurrences” our collective violence would still be in dreamland.
As it is, the cops are the only people actually using the term. So I have to go on wondering: in what kinds of inequalities am I actually complicit?
Does countertop grime delineate an arrangement of power?
Might housework really be a kind of penance for certain male domestics?
When insects dehydrate and die in lampshades, do we pity their lust for light?
Is the swirling decor on this coffeepot nothing but a caffeinated stain?
If we reduce it all to nothing buttery, then what about last night’s spaghetti? Wasn't it buttery enough, gracing the communal pasta pot with VanGogh-ian swirls? And ...
Isn’t that just it? Once you've seen a shattered light bulb align its inner silica to the tune of a glacier...
Once you've seen impossible things, you kind of come to expect them.
Like there’s nothing remotely desperate about a putty knife permanently wedged in a dried-out mass of plaster.
I don't know why I’m compelled to remain in touch with the mold on my shower curtain, or the worn out soul of a slipper.
Maybe I'm just a moldy soul.
But to me the effort, the scraping, painstaking tedium, the cracks under the towel rack ... are a gift.
As they reminisce of ritual bliss and daily bathroom baptisms I perceive them nodding dryly...
at a hinted incarnation, and a deep undercurrent of commitment: to come clean.