Tuesday, May 27, 2008

Next to Godliness

My first day with my feet under me in the city, and I spent the better part of it embracing a toilet.  But for good reason, I think.

Saturday, when I arrived, and Sunday, when I exhaled over mass and coffee and my favorite used bookstore were not real days in Washington, DC.  They were still days of the in-between.  I was still a newly-arrived, though a third-time returner and a happy one at that.

But Monday, Memorial Day, a big full day of being in the city lay ahead of me with as much freedom to use it as I could want.  The plan was to enjoy a mid-morning jog, followed by an early lunch, and some leisure reading at the local coffee shop.  This plan was derailed by a potato chip.

I saw said chip on my way out the door, running shoes laced and at the ready.  I stooped to pick it up and throw it away, when the thought came to me: "I wonder when was the last time this floor was swept."  Out came the broom.  Under the table, behind the refrigerator, around the corner and down the hall to...the bathroom.  The bathroom.  I checked under the sink and found a bottle of Clorox spray, almost completely full.  I looked at the shower--and then looked away again.

Three hours later, I had finished scrubbing every last object and crevasse, down to the plunger itself, and I could ask the question: why?

"Nesting" is the obvious answer, but that merely sticks a succinct label on my actions without explaining them.  Here is what I think was going on: I live in a basement apartment with two other twenty-something men and in a situation like this inertia will lead you very quickly into a pigsty.  The odds of keeping a place like this clean and smelling nice are stacked against you from the outset.  Your choice is to either relent and force yourself to ignore the mess until you decide that you really can live amidst the hair and dirt and old soggy newspapers, or you can fight the looming forces of disorder, knowing they will renew their encroachment within a day.  The image is of the old Norse gods staving off the giants and trolls for as long as they can, until their inevitable doom, or, without getting too grandiose, God separating the dark face with a ray of light.

There is something heroic about cleaning one's house.  Disorder of any sort can be coped with either by anesthesia, numbing yourself, usually by giving yourself over to other distraction (which is a species of internal disorder), or by excision.  The latter is less pleasant and will have to be done time and time again, but over time you find the task less painful and overwhelming.

It's rather like the choice between confession and secrecy.