nothing on the ipod is good and i’m slumping in the chair and not feeling like doing much of anything, including writing. i’ve taken to starching my clothes while ironing; not everything but many of my blouses and pant cuffs. hemming pants the other night was strangely satisfying in a very calm, quiet, focused way. i get the same satisfaction while ironing. we don’t have a proper laundry or utility room (the coin-op laundry machines are downstairs in the shared basement, as a matter of fact), so the ironing board has taken permanent residence in the dining room next to the table. last week i bleached a load of whites— first time i’ve ever done a bleached load of anything— and gave them a nice starch spray and iron after they were dry. this is wild to write! me, finding joy in domestic activities. lately, though, i’m finding joy in the little things. like good toothpaste (colgate total) and fresh linens on a bed and opening a new deodorant or mascara. like a crisp shirt that i didn’t have to pick up from the drycleaners. i love opening up the cabinet below the bathroom sink and seeing 12 perfect rolls of toilet paper, all stocked and stacked up neatly. i find comfort in stashes and piles and abundance. i’m a stasher, a cacher, a pack rat. it’s a crutch, really, but such a nice crutch. i’m sure my attachment to things has deep roots to my soul and my upbringing. but what’s shit is when my stuff, my piles, my abundance does nothing for my unsettled, unsatisfied mood. i’m surrounded by objects that don’t talk back or offer anything except looking nice.