Parents dead. Can’t backpack, can’t do hip hop. Who am I, really? Now I get to find out. – Susan Moon
March, 2015. I was letting housework get in the way of my writing. Gives you some idea just how hard I procrastinate. Remember when, young and single, I'd return to my downtown Portland condo from a long run in Forest Park or maybe over the Sellwood Bridge and back to 2182 Northwest Hoyt. Where the dominant unit was mine.
Back then, my idea of housework was throwing down my sweaty t-shirt on the hardwood floors and swirling the dust up with my feet.
Old and married, suddenly it's a recurring project. My dog comes in from a few hours reclining on shady dirt shakes his head and I'm wiping dried drool off the white walls six feet up.
My dog, Hagrid, is over six feet long and a hundred & eighty pounds. Buff for a canine. Nicknamed "Inconveniently Located."
Not unlike living with a baby rhino with fur. Amazing creature and fun just to look at. But somehow reminiscent of "Pigpen" of The Peanuts Gang.
Vacuum the floors three times a week. Not often enough. Feel like a weirdo if I sweep up any more often. Now dusting the television table on my knees while the little bitch licks my ears. You get down on the floor, you're in Dixie's world.
The time change has altered the afternoon sun which shines a spotlight on the dust looking like the beach sandy and rather unacceptable even for the likes of me.
March, 2026. My fitness plan is not to fall. Almost two years since I last bent my left knee. Now, everything I do is rehab. Making the king-size bed is a good stretch. Wash the dishes by hand, sooth some arthritis. The big vacuum more than I can safely handle, so I use a broom. More stretching. Tell myself it’s just tai-chi. With chores instead of baby goats.
Old age gets in the way of my writing today. Old age keeps me busy with more important things to do than write, like remain mobile, like survive. And still I write.
Life is good. Fuck A.I.