What's Right

This is part of a two week online writing course with Jena Schwartz, January 9 to January 19, 2017.

“This is where we meet. We write alone, yes. But this is the space where we get to “see” each other and witness each other’s creative process as we move through the prompts and see what emerges.” Jena Schwartz

What feels right?

        My commitment, again, to write more regularly feels right. I cleaned my space for you, created your own little corner in the loft, where I sew, and sometimes sleep, when I fear my tossing and turning will keep Larry awake, which happens, actually, more often than not. In the early morning, I frequently crawl back under the flannel covers and nestle my naked body into the curve of his heat and softness. That feels right.

     The unclogged drain also feels right. It was a three day ordeal. The kitchen sink. Coconut oil, we are convinced, was the culprit. Google it.

     What feels most right was the lack of cussing. Larry is a gentle man, an awesome lover, a great cook, just to mention a few of his wonderful traits. But the cussing, has become more than I can handle.

     It was while Mary and I were hanging my show, "Ensemble, a Layering of Color," in her gallery that I recognized how much Larry's cussing has penetrated my body. Mary was on a ladder attempting to toss fishing line over a steel rod so I could drape fabric onto a pole. She missed. Instantly my body braced in anticipation for her cussing. She never cusses. There was no reason for me to react. It was a remnant reaction to Larry's reaction as he pulled the auger out of the pipe, filled the drain with water and nothing flowed. 

    When I got home and Larry showed me his new automated auger and plastic tubing for filling with hot water and detailed his next strategy for breaking through the coconut oil, I took a stand. No cussing I said. I told him about the incident in the gallery. I warned him. If he cussed, I would spray him with cold water. He was humble and nodded in agreement.

     He complied. When the auger got stuck, he paused, rested, tried again.