Laundry Day For The House Of One.

Monday can be as moody as a horse five month pregnant, but Tuesday is special. It's the day I get to feel like Einstein's cousin, the half-wit circus clown who unlocked the mysteries of eternal love. The kind of love that can make married couples who have been living as strangers for more than twenty years to suddenly look at his or her spouse in a different way that will make them want to get away from the kids to go live on a deserted island as lovers who can't get enough of each other. Tuesday is the day my lonely apartment comes alive with the domestic sound. The sound that means a great deal to me. The slow rumbling sound of a washing machine in full cycle, turning and swirling the laundry in a merry twirl. It's the sound that can make me feel like Bill Clinton. Or George Bush. Or Martha Stewart.

For two and a half hours, counting from the minute I carry the laundry basket from a section of the kitchen to the washing machine, putting in the laundry piece by piece, mulling over a decision which type of detergent to use, and finally turning on the dial to set the machine going. All this makes feel me so important. It makes me feel like a military commander, a big guy with a mission that can determine which way the economic future of the nation can go. Of course I know all this ain't much of anything to a lot of folks out there. Especially the housewives. They do this everyday and have probably gotten sick and tired of it. But not for me. Give me laundry to do and you'll see me all fired up ready to go, complete with the laundry dance which is a half circle dance around the washing machine, and the fabric softener.

TV sound doesn't count. It's artificial. It is not connected in anyway with the actual act of living. The sound from a washing machines, however, is the real thing. It has a direct link with life itself. Without this sound I don't get to wear fresh clothes smelling all nice and sweet. Of course this is the closest deal I can get to the real thing of having my laundry dried in the sun. The kind you hang on a long clothesline in the middle of a prairie, or by the beach. I can be anywhere in the world but the images of laundry on clothelines blowing wildly in the wind under a bright afternoon sun will always reminds me of home. Wherever that might be. It reminds me of the existence of human. And life. And laughter.

I don't dry my laundry in the sun. Not in this apartment. I want to do that but I'd better not because it will only make this whole apartment complex looking like a giant laundry factory. I have a lot of respect for this building that I am inclined to believe that it is morally wrong for me to turn it into Sam Ping Flat equivalent.

Instead of sun dry, I got my laundry machine dry. Which is not so bad. Especially the towels that will come out all fluffy and warm. I like folding these, making them look like pastry dough left overnight ready for baking. I also like folding away the laundry in a neat stack. My clothes are boring. There are only three dominant colors, black, blue and white. Maybe beige. I liked it better when Aunt Su was here. Her laundry had a bit more color to my otherwise boring set. She's got bright colored batik sarung, brown and purple ones from Ceribon and Eastern Jawa. I'd say my laundry is macho but it is nonetheless a stack of laundry that reminds me that I'm home. And it's Tuesday. Until next week.