The Five Strands of A Sedentary Empress

Home Improvements

"Invalid Entry" 

This house has many rooms, each one its own colour, its own feel. Each one has a separate history, a distinctive relationship with the ones around it, and there is no theme to the way they are arranged. I move in and out of them blindly, taking different routes through different doors, sometimes fingering the walls as I go, like the blind do when in a place that is unfamiliar. I worry about leaving fingerprints, but as it's only me who would ever notice anyway, the fear tends to give way to make room for more pressing concerns. I worry if it's ready for company, if it is inviting, and if it's pretty enough. I worry that it may one day stop feeling like home.

A red room, full of memories, and the things of the long departed. Some say it's so dark that the light never really comes in, but I am comfortable there. I see life in every wall, cells that are still living, passion in muddied dimples of the drywall. Images of myself in various states of progression: chubby-cheeked and laughing, pale-faced and austere, jubilant and maternal. There is the credenza that has lived for two hundred years, and the couch that the cat with the claws won't stop abusing. It is the heart of the house, the room I leave alone until I'm ready for quiet contemplation and reassurance, and I rarely go there unless I can be there on my own. I am often reluctant to share it, for fear the Iranian rug might be soiled, or that the Wedgwood might crack. It is precious, and it pulses gently, but only I ever really hear it. I would like a set of lace curtains for the window, an ivory pair which would be sheer enough to let the light in, but would keep prying eyes from getting a good look beyond the glass.

The room with the butterscotch walls is where the love resides. It has silk Chinese pillows, bright red, embroidered squares with mandarin style buttons, and a Venetian style bedspread, with deep red and gold swirls of flora. The sex and the love are interchangable here, sometimes forceful, mostly sweet, divided into uneven pie wedges of time. This is the room where my womanhood dwells, where my primal screams are absorbed into the floorboards. It is also where I go for the safety, where the darkness feels like a soft blanket, and where the touch of his hands makes the strongest connection. I have noticed that it needs new closet doors, though. Sometimes, when the old ones are pulled open, I can see all the hastily folded clothes I've lost my liking for. Even in the dark, I can tell their colours have faded, that they are shrunken or misshapen, and it bothers me. I am more comfortable in my nakedness than I am in knowing I will have to wear them again, but I will have no option when the sun pokes through the curtains. I would like new doors so I could be shielded from the sight of bleeding colours when there is no need to be reminded of them.

The room with the butter walls and the white tub is where I sometimes feel beautiful. The paint is peeling in the corner by the shower, and I can't help but ruminate about this whenever I am lying in the hot, lavender water. No amount of steam or oil can shift my gaze from the imperfect corner, and I devise strategies for correcting it, until I rise from the tub and lose focus. The heat makes me weak and kittenish, like I could curl into a ball and wrap my paws around my face and fall into a deep, warm sleep. I wake up feeling as though I'm drunk on milk, and I forget the peeling paint, lazy with the lingering warmth and lethargy. That the paint will eventually peel from the wall, like scales from a fish, does not matter to me once I am distracted and in other parts of the house. I am not even sure that a new coat of paint will do much to restore the room back to its former glory, what with the fissures in the wall underneath. A house is designed with this in mind, and there is no way to reverse it. All one can do is ignore it, or paint over it, but at some point, the cracks in the wall will show through. Until then, I count my blessings that the cracking is in one small corner, and that I have some time until the rest of the room gives way.

The vanilla room is where all the cooking happens, where all the ideas and the mothering come together. There is preparation, and there is creation, and quite often, there is success. When I care to cook, when I look at all the instructions in my recipe books, I am able to put together a fairly satisfying meal, but sometimes, I am pulling out bowls and filling them with what's easy, knowing that the very least is still enough to get us through. Some cereal, a plate of eggs, a slice of browned toast, will all do what I need them to, and I won't have to work so hard to please. I know I could make something memorable, if only I had the desire to see it through, but most often I am too hungry to be patient, too annoyed by the open mouths which wait for feeding, and I dole out what's in front of me. I haven't gone hungry yet, and no one is complaining, but I know they wish I would get more imaginative. My tastes are broad, the flavours I love so diverse, but for some reason, I keep making toast and eggs. At some point, I will need a decent fan to take the grey haze out when I am overcome with it, an overhead one with fat blades to cut through the clouds. The clarity will let me see what I'm doing, and I might be more inclined to experiment and take risks. This is when I will bring out the good plates, when I will pour the wine into real crystal goblets, because I know this will be worth celebrating, even if I'm the only one who dares to eat.

There are other rooms here too, each one housing its own unique purpose, but my head swims when I think of all the work yet to be done. I feel overwhelmed, like there's no point to any of it. It's just a house, it's just a place to live and it doesn't have to be interesting. I don't know where to start, where I'll get the money or resources to change what I yearn to change, so I hide in whichever room seems the most reassuring until the fear lifts and passes. Sometimes, I am busting with sadness and rage at the sameness of the way it looks and feels, day after day, with only small changes and light cleaning. I can't stand the look of it, wish I were any where but where I am and I feel my jaw clench at the impediments to progress. Then, other times, I see the colours, the things I've come to love on the shelves, the paintings which hypnotize me on the walls and I know that this is where I'm meant to be, that all of what I see is about who I am, and even though there is work to be done, it is my home, after all.

I take a step back, and I see where the changes need to happen, but I'm not going to beat myself up over how long it might take to get it the way I want. It's not entirely without merit, this house of mine. It's fairly sound and sturdy, and when it creaks and groans I'm usually the only one bothered by it. It doesn't stand out from the ones on the street, but I'm happy to live here.