Between Four Walls

Dec 15 2015

Dishtowels, folded and pressed,

kneading the crease 
teeth-clenched.

Vacuuming frantically under the bed,

jabbing at dust-balls

like cornered rats.

And elbows greased, both hands,

sponging-down counters

with white-knuckle grips.

There is always cleaning.

You've ground your teeth to bits,

tantrumed

tossed glassware

talked it to death.

But now, next to godliness

exhausting yourself.

The serenity of order

between four walls,

the illusion of control.

Undone, and done again

day-after-day.

Is this a circle of hell, repeating itself?

Or ritual's calming Zen,

  ...virtuous

                   ...measurable

                                           ...fixed?

When things are falling apart, there is a temptation -- among some of us -- to restore order by cleaning. For one, unlike most things in life, cleaning provides a measurable outcome, something tangible and seen. You exorcise your demons, burn off that excess energy, accomplish something. Of course it's also evasion, which is a form of cowardice. And soon, it will need to be done again: this impermanence, disturbingly analogous to the back and forth of life.

On an episode of Masters of Sex I watched last night, Virginia Johnson's visiting mother turns to cleaning to vent her frustration. (In her case, this is a metaphor for her preoccupation with appearances, with what others think. And also passive aggressive: a way of trying to take charge of Virginia's life by taking charge of her house, as well as a non-verbal way of expressing her judgement about Virginia's choices in life.) Anyway, in one scene, she turns away as Virginia talks and stiffly folds a dishtowel. I could just picture her clenched teeth. And there is also the delightful futility of this: folding a dishtowel, of all things?!!

This is the image I begin with. I was about to clean up the kitchen, and it came to mind. Since I, too, find cleaning therapeutic, it seemed worth a poem.

I didn't want to refer to cleaning in the title. So Between Four Walls offers a certain misdirection. And I like the way it reinforces this illusion of control, which is a big appeal of compulsive cleaning: that is, a small contained fragment of the world that appears immune from disorder; that you make fully yours.