You inherited me a hatred of Jerry built; this place is Jerry built. They’ve used the wrong paint, the wrong sealant, the wrong freaking just about everything in a totally cheap effort. I know we would have painted. But me, instead, I’m going to leave it better than I found it and still be ashamed at walking away from a place so very dirty.
Who cares?
Like as much it would make my street salvaged furniture feel out of place to be in a place without the high tide marks of other people’s floods.
I start by scrubbing the walls, fumes dizzying and reeling me around the hot room. Then I scale back to dusting, wiping, thinking about moving but not moving. Later still the superficial rearrangement of the items in the refrigerator.
Eventually, the sweet bliss of wishing the whole fucking thing was over already, the whole place having gotten worse before it’s gotten better you realise that you could have gotten your swoon on hard.
What do you think? Baked figs, prosciutto and goats cheese on turkish bread? Egg tarts? Spelt brownie.
eleanor j jackson 