The scrubber's wife

The rain today became sleet and the sleet briefly became snow. The sun popped out only occasionally and the clouds slammed into one another like puffed-up jousters. The local fun fair must have taken one hell of a pounding. In between working on what I must be working on right now, I took my frustrations out on the bathroom. I scrubbed and I scrubbed like a person with nothing to do. And yet the scrubbing made a kind of puritanical sense and eventually my feelings, like the bathroom, became clean. I still go back to it. It took me hours. Anyway, I have been thinking about what this may all mean. It could be to do with the artist and her dilemma about showing her work. For almost a year I have defended the artist's right to fail spectacularly at self confidence when it comes to an ability to hunt socially for an exhibition. But now - maybe only today - I am not so sure. It may be about scrubbing too, I am thinking, elbow grease, doing what you don't want to do. I am not talking about the work itself. That is amazing and indisputably diligent. I am talking about physically making contact. After the long weekend we will discuss strategy again. In the meantime, I will continue to admire the bathroom.