Spent the day on my hands and knees stripping the kitchen floor of wax; don’t think I’ll ever do that again. Now it’s evening, and I pace that floor to the rhythm of worries financial. Tense, restless, wondering what is next, if anything, but more of the same. Caretaking; years pass, taking care of myself and a small house.
The dog comes in, wanting a walk; that’s how she takes care of me.
August is the time of weeds, town taken over, deserted; sci-fi post end-of-the-world deserted. We walk, the dog and I, through town; quiet beyond normal, normally quiet; our town is a rest stop in the wilderness. There are two wildernesses, one of man and one of nature, one inside and one outside: civilization lies somewhere east and west.
My house is barely a house – it supplies a hot shower, cooking stove, lights, doors and windows. The walls form a blow-through tunnel. Inside out, and outside in; sand, clay, leaves and footprints.
It’s a camp – an old lady camp, with a dry potted garden and laundry on the line; clothes burnt dry, smelling of ozone; the dog lies under the waves of fabric. Breathing dogs and blowing wind are the rhythm of my house. A barefoot house, winter and summer, my feet love my house.