C tries to organise the objects in her house. C lays out lines of objects, begins in one room, begins again, until in every room the objects have been laid out line for row. When entering there is a hall, with right a bedroom, left a bathroom, straight ahead a living room and through that on the left a kitchen. Wherein C opens all her cupboard doors, reaches in with both her hands at equal level equal pace, the fingers alternate to grab like tendons then like vices the foodstuffs living on the front row, or in hidden shadows. The best she can is what it looks like when C is done; label-facing spices two rows deep, multi-shaped cartons of teas bricked neatly as a wall, behind which baggy packs of flour, baking soda, sugar. C does not change the Seinfeld wall of cereal, she rearranges condiments, stacks mini-packs of multi-flavoured jam, places on top of peanut butter, peanut butter. Inside her fridge a puddle leaks unevenly to one side. So for her books & bookshelves, sofas chairs & table, desk, C creates the even lines of parallel and equanimity. C fluffs & beats her sofa pillows beats her carpet. Lays her carpet beater in the hall, parallel the sole left / right shoe, the doormat. C meditates on throwing out half-empty variations on a theme of shower gels, instead she hides them in ascending order, behind a bottle full of shampoo & a bottle full of body gel. Three toothbrushes, one unknown, are arranged on an only bathroom shelf, along with two toothpaste tubes, one plastic Gillette razor refill cartridge with one remaining blade. Ten rolls of toilet paper rolls sit in the corner of the bathroom shelf against the wall above the toilet. Before C lies herself onto her floor she opens up her wardrobe door she pulls open the drawers, pulls out her drawers. C folds her shirts and socks and drawers and pants & pieces onto their kind and into piles & piles. Having worked frenzy contra disorder C sits, by hardly denting, in the middle of the middle of the sofa. She thinks about the puddle in her fridge. The puddle & her body, the only objects left uneven in the house. On her desk, C eyes a row of pens, soldiers fatigued, unto death arranged. C lies herself onto her floor precisely alongside carpet lines, with arms straight down, with palms flat on the ground. C slides up her hands up, to where her elbows were, between two lines of carpet, 90° approximately, a strike-a-pose, a doll about to push upright. C’s one eye, lazy, weaves wayward between the straight(ened) lines, a drape threads dark, slant penetrating sunlight with slant grimy shadow. Trying to forget itself, C’s body presses into this rug, emerging and collapsing, nearly, in & out of trembling, unsensed. Regular as quantum clock.

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