Something New
Let’s take a look at our sublime logic.
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Let’s take a look at our sublime logic. ●
by Lizzie Rhys Derksen
My dog pees the bed, again, and I think about how hard it is to be a priest when you spend your days as a fulltime laundress. No intercessions for me; no visions; I’m busy following Ranger from room to room, fearing for the velvet sofa, swooping in with fresh linens, spray bottle in hand.
I still say that doing the laundry is holy, if anyone’s asking. I have to admit that I adopted Ranger, the laundry perpetuator, as a small black puppy in full knowledge of his leaking condition. Don’t all humans believe they have a call? Don’t we all see ourselves as appointed stewards, whether of one primitive creature or the planet Earth? It doesn’t seem to matter much, which.
As long as we have something to tidy (there’s a reason we call them holy orders). We all want to be the eczemic laundress, the crippled farmer, the harried and harassed French maid. Give us our sheets to change, our stumps to grind, our endless ashes to sweep. When, at eight months, the vet suggested some sphincter-snugging miracle drug, I rejected the suggestion because it seemed to compromise my service.
Four years later, on this fine April morning, Ranger has peed through a sheepskin, a bath towel, the duvet and its cover. Stripping the bed, I still say that the priest class and the worker class are the same. I still proclaim this in a loud voice, if anyone’s asking.
I put down the sheepskin, towel, duvet, cover, assume a receptive posture, and stand listening. No one is asking.
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I grab up the laundry again. What business do I have being a priest, anyway? Do I really believe there are eternal vistas of beauty unrolling before us? Do I really believe we are directly descended from Adam and Eve? Do I believe us to be the Lord’s gardeners, dog namers, divine sweeper-uppers? No, I believe we have run ourselves into a linoleum-covered corner and have no intention of backing out.
Biohazard suits, but make it fashion? The exhausting male fantasy of mass exodus to Mars? The interminable scroll of digital memory, dragging behind us like so much toilet paper? Saran-wrapped strawberry fields? Forever?
No thank you.
My problem is that I find unholiness in everyday life. Descending the stairs to the basement, I have the nagging sensation that my role as Ranger’s laundress has become unsanctified. If, as I am secretly convinced, there is no point in the end, there is no point in the means, either. But what under heaven do I mean by “the end”? What I mean is the icon repeated endlessly in advertising and in curated images of aspirational life, what I mean is Blonde Woman On White Couch In White Room. This image, if you pay attention, is swiftly coming to outnumber all other images 10 to 1. It’s all part of the tidying of information; it’s easy to keep a complete digital record if every photographic composition is the same.
Although maybe it’s the other way around—who’s-who re: the ends and the means? Let’s take a look at our sublime logic. Proposition A: The mess maker is necessary to justify the existence of the pristine priest. Proposition B: The pristine nature of the priest is necessary to justify the mess needing so urgently to be cleaned. Necessary conditions, but are they sufficient?
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Don’t forget the white coffee cup. You know the one. The one necessary to complete the picture of the blonde woman on the white couch in the white room. Sometimes she’s draped herself ineffectually with a throw made of white cashmere. (That’s right: Our interminable scroll of memory is ninety percent images of a clumsy novice who is still probably going to make it all the way to nun.)
Putting my bedding into the machine, I feel a great animosity toward the stylist who perennially insists on that whitewashed tomb of a coffee cup. Though there is never any coffee in it, the white coffee cup is supposed to be the concession to the cyclical nature of life.
Life, in which, every morning, coffee is brewed and consumed. Life, in which the human digestive systems steadily churns on. Life, in which the blonde woman presumably sleeps and wakes. Life, in which which the seasons presumably continue to change outside of the white room. Life, in which mess is made and cleaned up; in which the coffee is occasionally spilled, or run out of, or left to go cold, introducing an element of vital and ultimately profound variation.
I let myself sink to the basement floor, passing through one favourite position of priestly maintenance—the push-up—and into another—the full frontal lie-down. The cold cement bites into my sweat-anointed forehead. The drain in the floor burbles. A pile of clean sheets shuddering on the dryer threatens to avalanche on to me, but, to my vague disappointment, doesn’t. Here I am, prostrating myself in the laundry room. Where the hell is the profundity in my variation?
Variation is only profound if the regular (wash/rinse/spin) cycle is already profound. And if neither the variation nor the cycle is controlled by humans.
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I remain prone until my sense of drama runs out, while the washing machine chunks and thumps a few inches from my head. Then I get up, leaving the sheets.
While I’ve been downstairs enjoying my dark night of the soul, Ranger has climbed onto the bare mattress and peed on it also. He looks up at my wail of vexation and I see clearly that I have betrayed him.
When did the priest’s home become not only an unholy but also a hostile environment?
Still standing in the bedroom doorway, I peer over my shoulder into the living room. What are these endless expanses of porous surfaces, if not physical and psychological traps for a small, leaky animal that has evolved to cringe at my least displeasure?
I cross the bedroom and wrench open the window, spin on my heel, and march into the dining room. What is this airless box, hermetically sealed against the odours of life, and not incidentally against Ranger’s primary vectors of information? What is this table where I eat three times a day, three times a day denying a fellow creature’s polite requests?
I pass the front door. What is this collar, this leash, as if we had the right to implicate other species in our sex games?
Reentering the bedroom, I come face to face with my large and recently cleaned bedroom mirror. The pitted basement floor has left a lurid impression in my forehead. I turn away from it.
There is Ranger, still basking on his back in the sun, his ribcage poking up like a little cathedral, his legs extended luxuriously across the mattress covered with black hair, saturated with pee.
Of course, that’s not all it’s saturated with. Overlapping configurations of priestly sweat, cum, and menstrual blood extend like a map around him, while Ranger follows me with slightly crossed eyes and waits for me to banish him. The star on his throat is visible.
Say I, the priest, pee the bed. Say I make my bed and piss in it, and make beds where other creatures like to piss. Say I don’t bother to make the bed, and simply add one more to the countless stains seeping into each other across the entire surface of this IKEA mattress. Say my proverbial white coffee cup runneth over.
Say that, even though no one is asking. What then?
I take off my tights and do not bother to fold them. I take off my dress as well, and lie down on the bed. My thigh is on the edge of the cold wet spot, but I refrain from moving it. Then I just lie there, feeling the last vestiges of the divine presence deserting me. Ranger, meanwhile, is making a feast of his own ass; his whole body is coiled around to reach, his eyebrows are raised at me over his hindquarters.
As any priest or German housewife knows, relaxing for five seconds is the hardest thing. And it is not by relaxing that I finally manage to release a warm flood of piss that quickly spreads under me. I have to bear down, like a woman giving birth or equally like a woman expelling unwanted semen, and push it out.
And now I have thrown the proverbial white cover (fitted sheet) off the proverbial white couch (bed) and now I am the one stretched out in a patch of quickly cooling pee. Ranger has rolled onto a dry section of the mattress and returned to the undeniably important task of grooming himself.
Immediately, I understand that I have botched the sacrament. I am no more a priest in my filthy than in my pristine condition, and I find no more nobility in it. I have not even given in to a true secret impulse. My secret impulse is far more heretical. I could be denied eternal vistas (read: life on Mars) for it.
But I will say it.
There is a bodily urge to make way for something new.
Those individuals (where have they gone?) who have conspicuously stopped asking might classify this urge as a symptom of drudgery-induced depression, maybe even a psychotic reaction to the fumes of tea tree oil mixed with industrial-strength laundry detergent, but I prefer to think of it as a kind of ultimate martyrdom, a last-ditch attempt to stop cluttering up the eternal vistas for whatever creatures are coming up after us.
We are not a pretty sight.
I cough, and a bit more pee trickles out of me. Ranger sneezes twice, and flips like a beetle onto his back. And now he begins washing his face, licking his foreleg and then swiping it over his ears and down his snout. One snaggle tooth is hanging absentmindedly over his left jowl.
Grooming complete, he rolls over twice and rests his chin on my stomach, relieved that the dumb blonde priest has come to her senses.
Here is a difficulty. I am forced to admit that, much as he is implicated in this whole corrupt system of priesthood, I find no pleasure in the idea of Ranger “making way” for something new.
And exactly because he is only an auxiliary aspect of this obsolete order, I doubt I would be making way for an appropriate caretaker. Even if I no longer require a biological penance machine, and he no longer requires a laundress, I’m sure he still requires a dog walker. He still needs to be fed. And by someone who knows about his violent allergy to chicken.
I fear that though I appear to be lying on a damp and highly absorbent mattress, I am really back in the linoleum-covered corner, from which even Ranger, on his four legs, has learned to back out. Also to sleep when he feels like it. Also to sing like a tenor dinosaur. Also nightly to chase a tennis ball in the school field. Like an especially holy sister at vespers, he repeats the same phrase and never fails to find new meaning in it.
Lucky for Ranger. What about this shivering, defrocked priest? This image contains information that is not tidy, and perhaps not tidy-able. These questions are not helpful to an algorithm. I am not a good advertisement for myself, for priests anywhere. But I would raise myself if I knew what I was supposed to rise to.
I’ll say one last thing: I feel weak. Like any good woman of the cloth, I’ve been up since dawn and haven’t broken my fast. If I can get up, I can make myself hot coffee and a grilled cheese sandwich. Is this an appropriate context for ascension? Is it even possible for a priest to purify herself in the shower? Is it sacrilegious to put on clean clothes after coming from the death bed?
Lizzie Rhys Derksen writes poems about Aunt Rachel, Rachel’s wife Susan, and their niece Lucy. She writes prose about the priest class, the worker class, and her childhood spent in a religious community in southern Saskatchewan. In her spare time, she makes movies and refuses to work with AI.