infrastructure

I’m an indifferent housekeeper – I clean once a week and then I welcome the piles and the clutter and chaos that accumulate as the week unfolds. On the weekend I set things right again. This is my way. Like the ancient cycle of the moon, the mess waxes and wanes, and everyone knows what to expect.

Last weekend my father-in-law arrived. Together with my husband they have been practicing strange masculine rites in the attic, on the roof, in the garage, in the bathrooms, across my kitchen floor, and on the back patio. There has been much murmuring, much furrowing of brow, much dust, mess and debris.

And I am wreck.


Straightening things makes no difference – entropy reigns. I try to get out of the house – to go for long bike rides, walks in the woods. But, of course, I must come home again. When I do I try to stay still and out of the way, to allow them what they will, to perform those odd gestures that I do not understand. Obediently I pick up a paintbrush; I sand where I’m instructed. But the mess is driving me to distraction. Project leads to project: there is no clear end in sight.

In truth, there's nothing that I can do here: this isn't so much about home repairs as it is about men, a father and son, getting together to get things done.

So I do what I must do when I’m out of sorts: I order the world in my own particular way. I take pictures of the chaos. I scout for beauty among the broken bits. And for a little while, just a little while, my world is whole again.